


Taghadh

by thefraserwitch



Series: An Trianachd Fhriseil [1]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Angst, Cannon Divergent, Complete, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-04-04 03:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 55,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14011380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefraserwitch/pseuds/thefraserwitch
Summary: What if Claire had gone through the stones the first time Jamie tried to send her back (post witch trial) and what if he accidentally had gone with her?  Would she stay?  Would he stay?  How does Frank work into all of this?  Taghadh (Ghaidhlig for choice) explores how our beloved Outlander would change through answering all of these questions.  It is the first fic in a series of three called An Trianachd Fhriseil (Ghaidhlig for The Fraser Trinity).





	1. Prologue

For as long as I could remember, I had always been very decisive. Never wavering, I knew my mind clearly, and I constantly strove to make my heart’s desires reality. When Uncle Lamb tried to tuck me away at some rigid boarding school, I revolted. I refused to brush my hair. I would purposely leave pieces of my uniform askew. In pig-headed stubbornness, I would go whole days without meals. After I nearly fainted during an arithmetic lesson one afternoon, I decided to skip classes instead of abandoning nourishment. I particularly enjoyed missing the ones that focused on etiquette or some other frivolity, abandoning the restrictive binds of society to secretly tend the garden outside the kitchens. Missing class here and there lead to roaming the grounds and learning the secrets of the ancient campus by heart. Eventually and quite frequently, my wanderings gave way to leaving the property all together. After the eighth time I ran away, Uncle Lamb conceded, frustrated and exasperated with me, his iron-willed niece. From then on, I was by his side as his assistant on all of his archaeological adventures.

 

I would not be left behind.

 

The first time I went through the Stones was completely accidental, a random happenstance that left me helpless and friendless in a land and time I did not know. Not one to succumb to the circumstances life dealt, I spent every moment for months fighting, clawing my way back to my life. To return home and to Frank, I couldn’t rely on the foolish games I had played as a child; they simply wouldn’t do. I schemed, I plotted, I planned… and yet, each attempted escape only brought me further away from my intended goal.

 

With every thwarted try, I found myself pulled in the same direction. I tried to run away by the cover of night only to have Jamie see me safely back to Castle Leoch at the risk of his own safety. I flirted with British soldiers only to have my motives questioned, my arrest warrant issued, and a marriage contract to one James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser signed. Foolishly, I turned tail and ran the first moment Jamie ever left me alone in our marriage just to be captured by the Redcoats and Black Jack Randall once more. On that occasion, he bluffed his way into the fortress with an empty pistol and his own brute strength. We both very well could have died, but we didn’t.

 

Over and over again, my connection to Jamie strengthened and solidified as my dreams of ever returning home faded away. Whether or not I cared to admit it, we were drawn together like two magnets. The harder I tried to escape, the stronger the pull towards Jamie became. It was only after my head began to surrender to the secrets of my heart that I was granted my singular desire: to go home.

 

We crested the hill of Craig Na Dun hand in hand, Jamie guiding me closer and closer to what I had craved for so long. He had given me his name, gifted me with the key to his familial home, warmed me in the homespun wool tartan of his clan, and protected me within an inch of sacrificing his own life to spare mine. He had kept every part of his promises to the letter, and here we were on top of a hill in the middle of the Scottish countryside and him offering to sacrifice his own desires for the sake of my own.

 

“So, what did ye do?” he asked, circling the main stone at the center of the circle. Ever the warrior, his sword was drawn before him, ready to fight and to protect at a moment’s notice. “The last time?”

 

I barely heard Jamie question my methods over the call of the Stones. The buzzing had been faint at the base of the hill, but now, standing at the middle of the circle, the cries rose to a deafening and hypnotizing roar. Completely entranced, slowly I inched closer to the largest stone at the center of the ring, the one that had transported me two hundred years in the past.

 

“I really didn’t do anything,” I explained, my voice barely a whisper above the cacophonous clamor of the stones. “I heard this buzzing sound…”

 

The rolling green hills of the Scottish countryside faded away to a lifeless grey expanse now that my goal was just a hair's breadth away, just at my fingertips and ripe for the taking. My arms lifted almost on their own accord, as if some imaginary puppet master tugged on an invisible wire and demanded my limbs to move.

 

“...and I just touched the Stones…” I was completely under their power now, helpless to stop what was about to happen next. With both hands outstretched, I leaned in, ready to touch the boulder and be transported back to 1945, back to Frank...

 

Suddenly, a strong hand gripped my shoulder, yanking me back roughly...but it was too late. We jolted forward, rendered powerless by the magic of the Stones. Jame’s cries echoed loudly in my ears as we hurled forward in time.

 

_**“CLAIRE! NO!”** _

 

And then there was nothing but darkness.


	2. Chapter 1: The Long Time Traveller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire - having gone through the Stones accidentally after the Witch Trial at Crainsmuir - finds herself lying amidst the Stone Circle in 1945. This chapter was written as part of Gotham's Writing Workshop for Week 9: It was there with every breath.

I refused to open my eyes.

 

While I was determined to disregard my present situation, my lids firmly remained closed for a more practical excuse. I could feel the world spinning wildly around me even though my eyes were tightly shut. My stomach violently lurched again and again, reassuring me that opening my sights to the outside world would - in fact - not be very wise.

 

Instead, I turned my focus inward, observing my body and acknowledging what ailed me. The whole process reminded me of Uncle Lamb and our time in India. During our year spent in Mysore, we had been invited to join a daily yoga practice with the new yoga school at the Jaganmohan Palace. In all honesty, Uncle Lamb had been invited and insisted that I participate, even if I was a young lady, which was utterly scandalous. As the guests of the Maharaja, the prestigious Krishnamacharya guided us through our daily postures, though his brother-in-law Iyengar did his best to show off his impressive skills. Despite the distractions, I managed to gain some knowledge of the practice, even if I did find the poses uncomfortable and silly at the time. The positions changed me and challenged me, and there was none more challenging than Savasana.

 

_Corpse pose_. Typically the final pose in a yoga practice symbolized death, in that old ways of thinking or acting die for new, enlightened thoughts and actions to be born. The yogi must yield to the difficult act of simply existing in time and space to be reborn.

 

I certainly felt like sacrificial remains at the moment, lying prostrate amidst a circle of standing stones with my limbs spread wide in abadoned surrender. Reminding myself of the meditative practice observed while in Savasana, I started at my feet, I catalogued every limb, every freckle, every inch of skin from memory, working my way from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. The bottoms of my feet tingled unpleasantly as if they were suddenly moved after a long period of rest or singular position. I flexed them gently testing for an injury or abnormality - which I half expected to find since I had lost my shoes during the calamity at Crainsmuir. However, I was pleasantly surprised to find them relatively injury-free, save for a few scrapes and blisters that I had sustained on my journey to Craig Na Dun.

 

My journey continued north, following the curve of my calf. Behind my eyes, I could see bruises blooming like deep, violet dahlias along my shins, all trophies from my endless days of hard riding on horseback. The path along the lines of my legs was unfamiliar as endless days of walking, hiking, and sometimes sprinting brought curves from newly toned muscles I hadn’t yet noticed. Warm pride unfurled in my chest. Rather than shrinking in fear my body risen to the occasion, growing stronger with each obstacle I faced.

 

Beyond my lower limbs, I came to the first of my chakras - focal points within the body through which yogis seek to channel energy and heal the body. Of course, these points coincidentally aligned in Western medicine with important organs, bones, or glands within human anatomy. As I mentally examined the lower half of my torso, I thought of the first of the chakras - The Root. I couldn’t recall the symbolism behind the name, but I did remember it’s anatomical location at the base of the spine and focused my attention there. No threatening injuries were to be found; however, my arse was quite sore, most likely from the rude landing on hard, packed dirt. After months of riding through the Scottish countryside, I assumed I would be used to the muscles of my backside aching, even though I never did. I had however, grown accustomed to riding with Jamie. Either nestled in the triangle of his thighs or holding onto his trim waist from behind, sharing a horse with my impromptu husband had become rather comforting to me. His unique scent of woodsmoke, hay, and whisky would flood my senses… his plaid would wrap around my shoulders providing additional warmth and safety… his heart would thrum a steady, comforting rhythm beneath his homespun shirt…

 

_Enough of that!_

 

Moving further up my torso, I came to the next chakra, The Sacral Chakra. _Great, some distraction you found there, Beauchamp._ Unfortunately, I recalled all of the symbolism and meaning behind this point in the body. Found in the lower abdomen just below the belly button, the Sacral Chakra was the center of identity, creativity, pleasure… and sexuality...

 

If I told you that I was surprised how easily sex and intimacy came to our rather hasty marriage, I’d be lying. I had felt it from the first moment we touched, when I firmly grasped Jamie’s hand in mine preparing to realign his shoulder. A jolt of electricity ran through me, lighting every nerve within me on fire. It happened every time we came in contact with each other: when I tended Jamie’s bullet wound at Leoch and saw the scars on his back for the first time… when I teased him for kissing Laoghaire and our feet teased one another underneath the table… even when I clumsily trampled his prone form sleeping outside of my room. Each and every time tiny fireworks would burst underneath my skin, leaving my limbs shaking in their aftershocks.

 

Once we were wed and we came together for the first time, there was no turning back. The match was lit, and it felt like the entire tavern with all of its inhabitants would burn to the ground with us. It was far more than sex. No, something that was so overwhelming and all-encompassing couldn’t be limited down to one insignificant word. I yearned for Jamie when he wasn’t close by... I sought his gaze in the great hall at Leoch… I was disappointed on mornings to find he had risen before me and his side of the bed was empty and cold…

 

My stomach rolled again, reminding my conscious of the present situation. Jamie was in the past, and I was still presently nauseous.

 

Refocusing my attention to my physical examination, I moved on to the next chakra, just at the base of my rib cage. Some words simply don’t translate well from one language to another. I guess this was the case with this particular chakra for I remembered its name for its location in the body - at the solar plexus.

 

Located in the middle of the body, the third chakra represented balance, providing the intersection for the lower and upper halves. I started to find a sick humor in this chakra as I recalled its meanings in the yogic traditions. The solar plexus was said to be the center of will power, and certainly my power of wills was steadfast, if not obstinately strong. Once I knew my mind, I did not yield. One would think this high awareness of one’s self along with inhuman absolution would be rewarded with some superhuman abilities. All it provided to me was some terrible luck.

 

According to the lessons Krishnamacharya taught me, the solar plexus was also responsible for astral projection - the ability to separate from one’s physical being and travel outside it.

 

“Oh! How similar to the latest adventure you’ve had, my Claire!” I could hear Uncle Lamb explain in his endless curiosity and wonder. “I wonder what it all means!”

 

For all I could tell, this journey was nothing more than a bizarre trick. If my innate abilities for stubbornness and astral projection were found in the same place, how was it that I found myself - against my own will transported - through time via a standing stone circle not only once, but twice? This had to be some sort of sick joke.

 

I imagined all the deities of the world - Shiva, Buddha, Zeus, Odin, Re, Allah, Yahweh, and Jesus Christ himself - standing in a circle and laughing at me. They were all in on the rouse. They had all left me signs to figure out the moral to the story, the answer to the puzzle, but I was simply too daft to solve.

 

_What was the meaning of it all?_

 

The potential answers to all of these questions swirled round and round in my head until I realized my thoughts weren’t the only thing churning. With the outside world spinning once more, I refocused my attentions to the next chakra. My mind danced along the individual ribs in my chest, feeling them expand and contract with each breath. I kept a steady rhythm, breathing in for a count of five, holding for a count of five, and then releasing slowly - until my breath came to a stuttering halt. Observing the next chakra would not help. It was most definitely going to hurt.

 

_The heart chakra._

 

From the moment Jamie brought me back to Craig Na Dunn, my chest was splayed wide open, like an expert surgeon had cut me from clavicle to navel and spread the protective cage of my ribs wide open to bear every one of my secrets. Everything ached. I felt it with every breath, a rough scratching feeling like someone was rubbing the insides of my lungs with sandpaper. My limbs felt sluggish, heavy with liquid regret surging through my veins. I had wanted to return home with every fiber of my being, but once Jamie had presented me with that chance, my body rebelled before my mind had a chance to catch up. What was that quote about desires and tragedies?

 

_There are two tragedies in life. One is to lose your heart's desire. The other is to gain it._

 

George Bernard Shaw seemed quite a deal smarter than I did now, lying in the stiff, Scottish mud. I had gotten just what I wanted? To go back to my time, and to Frank? If this is what I wanted then why did it feel so wrong?

 

_Probably the log wedged behind your back, Beauchamp._

 

I wriggled against the rough branch, hoping to gain a new, more comfortable position. I didn’t dare attempt to roll off the log as the earth beneath me refused to hold still. It was far better for me to remain splayed against this lumpy tree limb.

 

To be honest, it was comforting in away. The position reminded me of an experimental posture Krishnamacharya suggested during a rainy morning session. We fashioned blankets and pillows to create a stool of sorts. He had us lay across these benches as he called them, so that the muscles across our shoulders and chests released. At the time, I remembered feeling liberated as many turmoils were unleashed from my torso… or at least, as many complicated feelings an adolescent could process. Now, my ribs felt broken and raw from the barrage of emotions surging through my body, each individual feeling catching like cobwebs on the stray branches that were the cage trying to contain them.

 

Anticipating the floodgates opening, I breathed in deeply, embracing the ache in my lungs that followed. My chapped lips reluctantly parted for the sob that threatened to escape… except it wasn’t my voice that followed.

 

_“Ifrinn!”_ a voice groaned from behind me.

 

The log beneath me stirred, rolling to and fro of its own accord. Unceremoniously, I was yanked backward away from the center stone, as the tree attempted to gain control of its stray limb. I was jerking suddenly upward and was now very much awake as cold metal met the back of my neck, making me yelp in surprise. I sat upright, face to face with a cold slab of granite, but I couldn’t help the feeling that I wasn’t alone.

 

“Sassenach?”

 

_Jamie?!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to include soundtracks with my fics, so to accompany this chapter is The Wailin Jennys Long Time Traveller: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-UNT3poCd6U


	3. Chapter 2: The Unexpected Passenger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire - having gone through the Stones accidentally after the Witch Trial at Crainsmuir - finds that she did not go through the Stones alone.

The following series events happened so quickly I saw them in flashes. As if I were on the outside looking in, I observed the individual moments as photographs on a highlight reel, capturing an array of emotions in stunning, high-contrast black and white.

 

The first image showed Jamie’s face alight with joy and surprise, a single tear rolling down his cheek. The next shots were a series of the two of us hastily crawling and clawing our way to each other, terrified of what would happen if we couldn’t close the space between us fast enough. We sported twin smiles and shared giggles as my clumsy feet tripped over my cumbersome skirt, Jamie’s thigh grazed against his sword nearly causing a deadly accident, and my gangly arms tangled in Jamie’s oversized plaid. After an eternity of slow-motion, most-likely comical pantomime, we sealed the distance between us in a tangle of limbs.

 

Jamie’s arms embraced me swiftly, strong bands of iron permanently welding our bodies together. His large, rough-hewn hands smoothed my wild curls, his fingers exploring and tangling themselves in each individual, messy ringlet. His lips were warm and soft against my skin, pressing kisses to every inch of my face until he found the shell of my ear. Prayers of thanksgiving flowed freely in Ghaidhlig as we blessed one another with our tears of sheer happiness.

 

Jamie’s presence worked wonders on my nerves. Feeling his arms around me, my heart rate slowed to a steady temper, and my breathing eased, returning to its even flow. As I came back to myself, the medical side of my brain began to take over. I investigated every ridge of his body, my hands roaming freely secretly imploring for any sense of injury. Either overcome with joy that we had not in fact been separated after all or completely accustomed to my poking and prodding, Jamie never once flinched. The gentle rhythm of his mutterings soothed me and provided the perfect almost melodic accompaniment as I worked him over… until one phrase caught me by total surprise, causing my hands to freeze just where his neck met his shoulders.

 

_“Tha mi duilich, mo ghraidh.”_

 

Gathering a fist full of his auborn locks, I wrenched his head back - far more forcefully than I had intended - to bring his eyes to meet mine. We simultaneously winced, Jamie in pain and me in regret, and then shakily laughed since no harm was done.

 

“Alright, we both know why I have a reason to be sorry. Care to explain why you’re begging for my forgiveness this time?” I inquired.

 

Ruddy brows knit thoughtfully together, and his lips pursed into a frown. His sapphire eyes cast downward, darting from side to side, never truly focusing on anything. I could see the wheels turning in Jamie’s head as he worked over several different trains of thought. I had come to admire his quick and clever mind. His crafty thinking had gotten both of us out of quite a bit of scrapes more times than that should have been necessary. He was usually confident - cocky even - but now with his head hung low and shoulders slumped in almost inevitable defeat, he reminded me more of a sullen little boy than the bold and courageous young man who had wormed his way into my heart.

 

Slowly and tenderly, I released his curls, allowing my hand to stroke the rough stubble along his cheek. The corner of Jamie’s mouth turned up slightly, and he sighed, relaxing into my touch like warm clay in an artist’s hands. My heart squeezed, as it often did whenever Jamie let his guard down for me.

 

Blue eyes flashed up suddenly, and the turning gears in Jamie’s mind clicked into place.

 

“I said I was sorry, Sassenach, because I meant to let ye go,” he said flatly.

 

I shook my head in disbelief - because Jamie truly wished to cast me aside or because the thick tears coating my lashes threatened to betrayed me, I wasn’t sure. Oblivious, he pressed on.

 

“I prayed all the way up the hill this morning,” he whispered reverently. “Not for you to stay; I didna think that would be right. I prayed I'd be strong enough to send ye away.”

 

He looked up towards the sky, as if he could see straight into heaven. Tilting his chin, he basked in the remaining sunlight of the day and sighed gustily.

 

“I said ‘Lord, if I've never had courage in my life before, let me have it now. Let me be brave enough not to fall on my knees and beg her to stay.'”

 

His piercing blue gaze met mine as the corner of his mouth tipped up ever so slightly. “Hardest thing I ever did, Sassenach.”

 

My arms flew around his neck as I pressed my body to his, so close that he could probably feel my heart bursting. A flood of emotions filled my chest. Jamie didn’t want me to go - not yet anyway. He brought me to the Stones not because he wanted to send me away, but because he thought that’s what I wanted - to go home.

 

_Home._

 

In my twenty-seven years on this earth, I never identified a singular place as home. Certainly, I had a home as a small child with my parents, but those memories were no more tangible to me than the mist that had settled around us. With Uncle Lamb, home was a caravan constantly on the move and ever changing - from the light, canvas tents in Egypt to the colorful yurts in Mongolia. After I married Frank, however hastily that decision was made, I thought I’d finally get the permanence I so longed for… a proper home with hardwood floors and a china cabinet for that lovely, little blue vase I spotted in an antique shop once… but then the war came. My life was once again gunny sacks, dented canteens, and mud smeared cheeks, but I didn’t mind. I was helping others - what were creature comforts to me when lives hung in the balance? Besides, it was only for a little while. Once the war was over, Frank and I would finally settle down to a ordinary, quiet, work-a-day life.

 

It’s exactly what I thought I wanted… normalcy… routine…but that was before the Stones, before Jamie. My life for the last six months had been unexpected and terrifying, yet it was exhilarating and oddly freeing. It certainly wasn’t my first choice, given the option, and I always knew my mind. However now, with multiple options spinning circles around me, only one question came to mind.

 

_What did I want?_

 

Jamie’s voice interrupted my thoughts.

 

“But I’m sorry yer still here because of me...” Jamie whispered into the shell of my ear.

 

_Here._

 

Where was here? We were sprawled on the ground at Craig Na Dunn - of that much I was certain - but I hadn’t put much thought into the when part of the question. Where we still in 1743? Or had I misjudged the power of the Stone terribly and we were in fact in 1945? Could it be possible we had been transported to a new time all together? We would need to figure that out and soon, before we found ourselves in a situation that was more unfortunate than our current predicament.

 

Slowly, I detangled myself from Jamie’s arms so I could look see his face. In the late afternoon sunlight, his ruddy curls glistened like the finest strands of spun copper and gold. His eyes glowed impossibly blue and full of mischief.

 

“Jamie, I… I…” my tongue was thick in my mouth, stumbling over the difficult realization I was dreading sharing before the words even left my mouth. “I don’t even know where here is… or more importantly _when._ ”

 

And then Jamie did the unexpected - he laughed. His lips split into a wide grin, and he let loose a roaring howl. His large frame rattled in my arms with each wheezing chuckle. Infectious as his laughter was, I began to chuckle right along with him until we collapse into each other, a pair of giggling idiots.

 

My forehead found his shoulder as I desperately tried to regain a hold on my sanity. Breathing in Jamie’s comforting scent, I took in several breaths, steady and deep. I felt Jamie’s arms drawing me to him as we rocked together, our laughter slowly fading away into comfortable silence.

 

“Mind cluing me in on the joke there, soldier?” I sighed into the crook of Jamie’s neck. His warm hand cupped my cheek, drawing me out of my hiding place. His fingers traced the lines of my face, gracefully dancing along my jawline. Jamie leaned into me, bringing our foreheads to touch and nuzzling his nose to mine.

 

“Sassenach, did ye no’ see me touch the Stone earlier? I didna go anywhere, except round in a circle back to where you stood.” Jamie explained, his voice gentle and soft as if he were speaking to a small child. “Can ye no’ see? We didna go anywhere.”

 

“Jamie, I…” I had begun to speak, but a strange rumbling sound in the distance distracted me from my thoughts. The noise was familiar to me like the low, rolling thunder of a far off storm, yet I still couldn’t place it. Had I been gone too long that I no longer recognized the noises from my time? Or was it a new sound I had yet to encounter? Desperately, I strained to hear the noise more clearly, though I’m sure it only looked like I was scrunching my face in frustration.

 

Sensing my agitation at the sudden interruption, I felt Jamie stiffen next to me, muscles pulling taught in preparation to fight whatever enemy was about to appear. His eyes narrowed to cat-like slits as I watched him observe the changing atmosphere around us.

 

The rumbling grew steadily louder before coming to a grinding halt at the base of the hill. A creaky, metal gate opening and slamming shut soon followed, along with light footsteps crunching on gravel. Someone was at the bottom of the hill, and they showed no sign of stopping where they were.

 

Together, we scrambled quickly to our feet and away from the center of the stone circle. Jamie grabbed my shoulders, not-so-gently shoving me behind him and placing him in directly in the line of whatever danger was to come.

 

“Whatever happens, Claire, ye must stay behind me. Can ye promise me that?” he whispered harshly, fear creeping into his voice. I nodded, though he could not see me. I learned my lesson more than once: when it came to fighting and my protection, let Jamie take the lead.

 

The footsteps grew increasingly louder and their pace quickened as their owner crested the hill. With the sun at the stranger’s back, I could only make out a silhouette from my position, shielded by the large Scot in front of me. He was a slight man, like Frank, but a few inches taller and with a few extra pounds of muscle to his frame. He wore a long trench that billowed out behind him as he strolled through the circle of stones. Examining the scene around him, our unexpected guest tilted his head high in the air, revealing his the sharp lines of his face.

 

Gradually, he crept closer and closer, touching each of the standing stones as he appraised them individually. My hands began to shake as he approached the center stone. He stepped cautiously around the stone, glancing behind his back. As he quickly turned to face Jamie and me directly, his arms flew straight in front of him, a gun in his hands.

 

The stranger screamed, “You there! Put your hands up and don’t you dare move!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The soundtrack for this chapter is Passenger's Let Her Go: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RBumgq5yVrA


	4. Chapter 3: The Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie and Claire come face to face with Detective Grey at the top of Craigh na Dun.

We froze at once - all three of us trapped in an inevitable stalemate that none of us could truly comprehend. Jamie’s muscles tensed around me as if he could create a human shield with his body, even though mortal flesh and bone stood no match for any gun, let alone modern weaponry. I caught myself holding my breath and clenching my fists to keep from making any sudden movements that might startle Jamie and cause the stranger before us to make any rash decisions.

 

From my safe perch behind Jamie’s strong shoulder, I surveyed the man opposing us. I could see him clearer than before, now that he was no longer shrouded in shadows. He mirrored Jamie’s strength and rigidity. Legs apart and arms locked, he held the stance of an unyielding soldier, aimed and at the ready. His skin was pale and smooth, unmarked by age or injury that I began to question if he was old enough to hold the gun in his hands.

 

“What are you doing here?” the stranger called from across the hilltop.

 

Jamie scoffed, “I could ask ye the same… Mister…”

 

While Jamie could tame the wildest of horses, our challenger was in no mood for polite conversation. He held himself stock straight, tension coursing through his veins causing his arms to shake ever so slightly.

 

“Answer the question!” he demanded, aiming the gun in his hands higher beyond the protection Jamie provided.

 

With the barrel of a gun staring me square in the face, I quickly ducked my head behind his back in fear of whatever horrible fate was about to play out before me. Little tremors ran through me, igniting every nerve like tiny bolts of lightning. Squeezing my eyes shut, I listened to the sound of my breathing, desperate to control the ragged wheezing squeaking through my teeth. I feared that any sudden movement or harsh noise would completely unravel me.

 

Auburn curls rustled as Jamie shook his head. “I see ye havena the time for pleasantries then.”

 

I waited for his hand came to his waist, searching for his sword in its hilt, but the blinding reflection of the setting sun off of the blade exposed my greatest fears. With a sword, we were at the very least ill equipped. Without it, we were completely defenseless.

 

I felt my anchor sway as Jamie subtly shifted his weight between his feet. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the stranger match Jamie’s movement, swaying tentatively to and fro. Together they simultaneously weighed different choices that their opponent couldn’t possibly know yet imagine.

 

“What is it that yer after?” Jamie asked first, his right foot crossing over his left. He casually guided us towards the wood and away from the hilltop. This was his game - he intended to run. However, I doubted Jamie expected the man to mirror his every step, thus beginning the perilous dance of the hunter and the hunted.

 

“The lady behind you…” the stranger began as he slowly placed another foot in our direction.

 

Jamie’s arms tightened around me instantly, and he growled, his voice low and dangerous rumbling deep in his throat. “Aye, what of her?”

 

We moved as one, backing away from him, matching his moves as he continued to inch slowly towards us, gun still raised.

 

“Her name - it isn’t Claire Randall by any chance?” the intruder inquired, still following our lead as he curved around the outer bend of the stone circle.

 

Ice ran through my veins as the syllables of my name casually rolled off the tongue of the man I hardly recognized. I willed my legs to move, to run, but my feet seemed to have forgotten how to work and remained stuck still in the Scottish mud. My mouth ran dry, and my pulse whirred loudly in my ears like a thundering river as one resulting answer revealed itself to me.

 

I knew where we were.

 

I recognized the noises we had heard just moments before from the base of the hill: the rumbling of a car engine and the metallic creaking of the doors as they pivoted open and closed on squeaky hinges. The garments the stranger sported were suddenly familiar as well. Frank owned a similar get-up: a knee-length, tan trench coat and a fashionable black fedora that he liked to tip over one eye. I remember the first time he wore it - I grabbed him by the coat collar, kissed him thoroughly, and huskily sighed _“Here’s looking at you kid!”_ with an exaggerated wink. The sound of my name - my _old_ name - was the final clue.

 

_We were in 1945._

 

“If you think we’re about to divulge our names to ye, when ye willna tell us yours,” Jamie’s voice brought me back to the present, his tone sharp and deadly as the edge of hi freshly sharpened dirk, “then I must inform ye - yer sorely mistaken.”

 

While I was lost in thought, Jamie had guided us further around the circle, and as I slowly came back to myself, I began to notice that tis warrior instincts had completely taken over. The muscles in his arms shook from the sheer force of adrenaline pumping through him, preparing his body to fight or flee. Jamie’s instinct was always to fight rather than flee and it seemed that our opponent followed in suit.

 

Weaving in, out, and around the individual monoliths, the stranger mimicked every move that we made. His step matched our every step for placement... for speed... for distance. All three of us together slowly and cautiously traced the outermost edge of the circle with our feet. Jamie would delicately cross his left leg behind his right, and I would creep behind him, lifting my skirt slightly to match his long gait. We would pause for a moment, waiting for the man to move, silently deliberating what our next action might be. Sure enough, he would follow in kind, matching Jamie’s step and demeanor to the letter. If it weren’t for the gun in his hands, I imagined he would’ve wrapped his arms behind him to guard some unseen treasure. Instead, the man’s arms held steady, his gun trained just above Jamie’s shoulder, directly at the left side of my face.

 

We took another three steps before we paused again; the man scurried forward, matching the distance we had cleared in our strides. Now at opposite sides of the circle from which we started, all three of us stood stock still, chests heaving, nearly panting in anticipation. Bracing him, I placed my palm against Jamie’s back, his heart hammering behind his ribs, just as rapid and furious as my own.

 

A moment passed, and then another. The quickly setting sun painted our situation in bold, threatening oranges underlined with ominous blue shadows. A soft breeze lifted errant curls from Jamie’s shoulders. He lifted his chin upward, testing the air and the timing of his next move. I felt his legs tense, and I was certain Jamie was about to run… when the man across from us lowered his gun. His hands fell limp to his sides before parting his trench to stow the pistol safely in its holster.

 

“I offer a truce!” he called out, empty hands raised in peace rather than violence.

 

The tension in both Jamie and myself gave slightly. I swayed into his shoulders, grasping them for support as he answered for us both, “Aye, we’re listening.”

 

“If I tell you who I am, will you promise not to run?” The stranger offered. “Will you hear me out and maybe answer a few questions? No harm will come to either of you by my hand - I swear to it.”

 

The man’s words hung heavy in the air and in our hearts. We had given our trust so many times before, only to have it tossed carelessly in our faces.

 

Jamie decided for us both. “Out wi’ it then - we’re losin’ the sun.”

 

The stranger nodded, smirking to himself in his victory.

 

“My name is Detective Grey. I’m a private investigator, and my current case involves looking into the whereabouts of a certain Mrs. Claire Randall,” Detective Grey declared with such a formal air as if he were addressing a grand jury.

 

Clearly unimpressed with the airs Detective Grey put on, Jamie scoffed. “We dinna ken anyone by that name. I myself am Jamie McTavish, and behind me is Mistress Beauchamp.”

 

“Beauchamp, you say…” the detective goaded as he began patting at his limbs in search of stray pockets. Patting quickly turned to rifling, and he nearly over turned his entire coat searching for his prize.

 

From a discrete inner pocket just at the breast of his trench, Detective Grey unearthed a folded piece of paper. The article had seen better days for now it was creased with several folds and corners dog-eared in multiple directions. The texture of the paper was clearly worn and read more like distressed linen rather than the crisp pressed pulp of an important document. Delicately unfolding the note as he crossed the stone circle just as carefully, Detective Grey delivered his secret weapon into Jamie’s hands.

 

Sometimes the truth is black and white, and sometimes it’s published on a broadsheet advertising rewards for your whereabouts. Bold, block like font declared that I was **MISSING** and that I was worth a mere fifteen hundred pounds. I stared at my own photograph stamped onto a flimsy sheet of paper with dark ink. Thick, black curls threatened to cover my face like ominous storm clouds. In smaller, more delicate letters just below my photograph, my full, legal name graced the page, revealing our lie to anyone and everyone including Detective John Grey. The woman in the photo was one Claire _Beauchamp_ Randall.

 

Well _fuck_.

 

Jamie continued to study the modern handbill, while Detective Grey turned his attentions towards Jamie. Rocking back on his heels, he thoughtfully stroked his chin, his forefinger and thumb grooming a nonexistent mustache above his lip. Grey’s light, steely blue eyes narrowed, evaluating every inch of the hulking Scot dividing us.

 

“Wouldn’t you know...” Grey drawled, “I have another wanted poster with me. The sketch is… rather remarkable.”

 

The detective fished out another worn and tattered piece of paper from the concealed pocket in his trench. This time Grey unfolded and then handed the sheet directly to me, and I could feel my skin burning where his stare burned holes into my flesh. The likeness made me gasp.

 

Crude as it may be, the drawing was certainly of Jamie. The forensic artist captured every notable feature of his face. His strong jawline... the knife-like edge of his nose… his sharp cheekbones... the cat-like slant of his eyes… the pencil captured each specific nuance in his individual features. I had no doubt in my mind that this sketch was of Jamie, but never-ending questions of how and why left my head spinning.

 

Detective Grey smirked, “So… Mr. McTavish… how do you know Mistress Beauchamp?”

 

We both balked at his question. How do we explain it? What lie could possibly be big enough to hide the craziest story ever told?

 

“I...hmmm… well you see, Detective Grey, sir…” Jamie stumbled over his words as he tried to invent a life full of make believe to cover more than just our asses. In 1743, he lead me through the intricacies of the century. Now it was my turn.

 

I breathed, deeply, preparing to take the leap… and then I jumped.

 

“We were kidnapped by Nazis!” I cried, breaking the bodily barrier Jamie held between the detective and me. I defiantly marched right to the edge of his shoes, demanding him to hold my gaze.

 

“Nazis? In Scotland?” Detective Grey asked, his left eyebrow quirked in disbelief as well as determination. “Care to offer an explanation?”

 

Nodding, I turned my gaze to Jamie, reaching out in reassurance. My palm grazed his cheek, brushing backwards until my fingers found purchase in his curls. I combed through his russet locks until I brushed against a warm, sticky liquid draining from a cut just above his ear.

 

_Bingo._

 

“Yes, yes, we’ll explain everything!” I promised desperately. Swiftly, I turned on my heel, waving my bloodied hand in Detective Grey’s face. Disgusted and clearly appalled, the detective shrunk back to avoid smearing any bodily fluids on his coat. I grinned fiendishly with my victory well within my bloody grasp.

 

“As long as it’s in a hospital,” I added turning my attentions back to Jamie. “Because he clearly has a head laceration and most likely a concussion.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's soundtrack is The Cello Guy's Smooth Criminal https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mx0xCI1jaUM


	5. Chapter 4: A Tangled Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective Grey interrogates Claire at a hospital in Inverness.

I had forgotten how much I hated hospitals.

 

Well… I had forgotten how much I hated being a _patient_ in a modern hospital. The entire experience was rather unsettling. Nurses quickly ushered me into a room with sickly blue-green walls and white furniture cleaned to a mirror polish shine. Overhead, an old factory-style lantern cast eerie shadows from its exaggerated elevation. How anyone could make a proper diagnosis with such terrible lighting was beyond my knowledge.

 

From a window to the left of the bed where I currently sat, I watched ominous storm clouds overtake the last moments of a beautiful setting sun. The darkening sky only enhanced the sinister nature of the shadows creeping behind the few pieces of furniture in my room. As thick, heavy raindrops pelted the glass, a strong wind rattled the individual panes violently, unleashing its unearthly howl on the streets of Inverness like a shrieking _bean nighe_ announcing some poor soul’s untimely end.

 

Whether it was from the thought of other-worldly spirits or from the blustery draft blowing through a crack one of the window pains, any icy shiver crawled down my spine, and I clutched Jamie’s plaid tighter around my shoulders, thankful for the warmth the thick, woolen fabric provided. The thin, paper-like smock the hospital staff insisted I wear offered little in the way of modesty or warmth, and the stiff sheet that had clearly been starched with straight bleach one too many times was chafing the back of my thighs. Upon our unexpected arrival, two nurses hastily relieved me of my clothes, roughly pulling where the cloth wet with rain and mud stuck to my skin. When one of these women tried to tuck Jamie’s plaid into a paper bag with the rest of my effects, an animalistic growl roared deep from within my chest as I snatched the fabric from her grubby hands. The primal ferocity of it all shocked and frightened me, causing me to leap back from the nurse in surprise.

 

_No wonder Detective Grey wanted to interview Jamie first._

 

Of course, the prim and proper detective had entered my exam room just in time to bear witness to my little outburst. Wide-eyed and obviously frazzled, he managed to squeak out a response that he’d be back to check on me later before quickly exiting the room. Both nurses followed suit soon thereafter, promising in demure whispers that a physician would be in shortly to examine me.

 

I had been granted a clean bill of health. I didn’t need the doctor’s examination to tell me this, but he came and went just the same. I was left alone again with my thoughts, which were becoming as dark and foreboding as the stormy, night sky over Inverness. Worry and fear gripped my belly, twisting and turning it into painful knots that constricted tighter with every agonizing moment that passed without word from Jamie.

 

_Could we actually pull this off?_

 

Once we were tucked safely in the back seat of Detective Grey’s auto, Jamie and I had quickly set ourselves to scheming, heads bent together exchanging harried whispers in a multitude of languages. French, Ghaidhlig, and sporadic English blended into a cacophonous melody of harsh, contrasting syllables and confused translations. _Nazis… secret missions… abduction… Frank…_ I silently prayed that my intentions were clear, that Jamie understood everything that was at stake, and that we wouldn’t get caught.

 

About halfway to the hospital, Detective Grey realized his egregious error. Suddenly jerking the wheel, he swerved the car off the road and slammed the gear shift into park on the grass, causing Jamie’s hulking frame to squash me into the right-side passenger door. A few moments later that very same door flew open, and if Jamie hadn’t quickly wrapped a strong arm around my waist, my arse would’ve landed square in a muddy puddle.

 

Detective Grey loomed above us, face pinched in annoyance. “I knew I should’ve separated you two. Come now, who’s sitting up front with me? And this time, let’s keep the conversation _en anglais, s’il vous plaît._ ”

 

_Merde._

 

The rest of the car ride went without incident. I volunteered to take the front seat. While I was fully aware that riding in the back seat could aggravate Jamie’s rumored sea sickness, I much rather put as much distance between him and Detective Grey as humanly possible. We couldn’t risk any dramatic reactions - horror, amazement, or whatever they may be - from Jamie during his first adventure in an automobile. Silently, I stared out the passenger window, watching the Scottish landscape whiz past me in a blend of mossy greens, deep browns, and the violet shadows of the storm to come.

 

It seemed as if I were to spend my entire evening this way - gazing out a window, watching life in Inverness continue on as if it were just another average evening. I never was a nervous person by nature, but the ticking of a clock somewhere down the corridor reminded me of every minute, every infinitesimal second that past without any word from Jamie or the detective. It was setting me completely on edge, every resounding tick of the clock questioning our plan.

 

_Would our deception work?_

 

It certainly was risky, especially for Jamie the proverbial fish out of water in the scenario. Granted, he had his charisma, lucky bastard. I always thought he could charm the pants right off Adolf bloody Hitler given the chance. No, Jamie wouldn’t be the problem...

 

I - on the other hand - could easily be the source of our undoing. My glass face betrayed me completely and often, spilling secrets of its own accord without any consideration for the trouble it would cause. It was no wonder neither Colom nor Dougal trusted me, not when eyes clearly held a secret tale behind every word that came tumbling from my lips. Over the years, I often spent time examining my features in a mirror, willing the muscles in my face into innocuous relaxation. If I had the time to settle myself into a state of hyper-focus, I could rival a French model with my nonplussed pout. If I was unprepared, the result was less than desired...

 

Before I had a chance to arrange my expression into practiced neutrality, the door to my exam room flew open.

 

“Mrs. _Randall!_ ” Detective Grey entered the room with a cheerful yet leading salutation. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

 

Though his speech was formal, his appearance had taken a casual turn. With his tan trench folded over his arm, I could now see the suit he wore - grey with a slight hint of blue to match his eyes, which were alight with mischief. His tie had been loosened for now it hung from his neck in slacked relaxation, and his cheeks were flushed pink from exertion… or from laughing.

 

_Oh that bloody Scott!_

 

From another room somewhere in this hospital, Jamie gave me a gift. He sent Detective Grey to my room relaxed and in a perfectly good mood. _Perhaps we could pull this off after all…_

 

I gestured to the chair by the window with the warmest smile I could muster. “Detective Grey, _please_ make yourself at home.”

 

He chuckled to himself as he pulled the chair to the center of the room to sit square across from my hospital bed. With an dramatic flare, he deftly draped his trench before settling into the chair with a leather bound notebook and a small golf pencil, which he fished out of his breast pocket.

 

I cringed as Detective Grey wet his pencil lead with the tip of his tongue before flipping his little book open to a clean page. The very thought of the thousands germs living on that pencil tip and passing into the detectives mouth caused me to visibly twitch.

 

“Shall we begin?” he asked. I nodded in response, desperately trying to hide my disgust with the dirty, little habit the detective just displayed.

 

“Your… _cohort_ … claims that you were both abducted. Is this correct?”

 

I agreed, though the way he had said “cohort” made me wary. “Yes, that’s correct.”

 

I prepared to spin my web, praying that Jamie’s patterns matched my own.

 

“Six months ago while visiting Scotland with my husband Frank Randall,” I continued, “I was abducted from Craigh Na Dun.”

 

At least, that was what Jamie and I decided to tell Detective Grey. It wasn’t necessarily a lie; I _had been_ abducted. Over the course of our lives, individually and together as husband and wife, we had experienced a plethora of scenarios that once woven together could create quite the story with enough intrigue and melodrama for the stage. Thus we had our plan: take true, real-life experiences, weave the appropriate ones together, and infill the details as needed. We weren’t completely falsifying a testimony, simply sensationalizing the truth.

 

“And who was it that kidnapped you?” Detective Grey questioned. “Did you recognize any of the men, or did any of them have any defining characteristics?”

 

I sighed and pressed on, my chest tightening as if my body were trying to resist the lie even though I didn’t feel the smallest twinge of guilt. The interview continued on for what felt like hours, as I explained our alibi, carefully weaving the delicate threads together into a tapestry to hide our deceit.

 

As I told Detective Grey, the captors had knocked me unconscious, so I had no idea where they had taken me, but when I awoke I found myself in what appeared to be an abandoned theatre. When they wanted to interrogate me, the men would bring me on stage like my interrogation and resulting humiliations were some grand production. They would mock me in their thick German accents, often switching to their mother tongue when they wanted to hide the true nature of their conversation from me. I described the space for Detective Grey: a large dark room, illuminated by a bright spotlight that was directly placed on me. Between the harsh contrast of blinding light and vast darkness, I wouldn’t be able to see anything around me, let alone identify my captors by anything other than their voices. This response seemed to appease Detective Grey.

 

_One hurdle down._

 

Bobbing his head, the investigator scribbled his observations in a small, caramel colored notebook.

 

“What kind of questions did these men ask you and how did you respond?”

 

“Typically it was about the war; specifically, they wanted to know more about the missions Frank was working on.... the players involved... locations of documents…” I elaborated.

 

“Missions?”

 

“Yes,” I clarified, “Frank wasn’t on the front lines. He was much higher-up in the ranks, and he worked on classified missions. I’m not sure what these men wanted with me because I never knew the specifics of any of Frank’s work.”

 

Memories of pre-opened letters with thick black strikeouts through several sentences - and sometimes full paragraphs - fluttered through my thoughts. For years, Frank and I corresponded only through government approved filters. Whether it was the reminder of government officials’ borderline voyeuristic preview into my marriage or the way Detective Grey was eyeing me over his journal that was sending chills down my spine, I could not tell, but I was certain that I felt the same about both situations - like an animal on display at the zoo.

 

“And how did these men respond to how you answered - or, well didn’t, answer - their questions?”

 

I swallowed hard. “They hit me, at first. They threatened to shave my head completely bald… to break my fingers and toes one by one... I guess they thought if they roughed me up a bit I would have to tell them the truth to get them to stop. Eventually, they realized I was telling the truth, and instead of beating me to death slowly, they decided to put me up for ransom.”

 

“Mrs. Randall, I thought you didn’t speak German?”

 

“I don’t, but once you hear certain words over and over again you begin to pick up their meaning… like _Lӧsegeld_ ,” I spat bitterly. Through narrowed lids, I watched Detective Grey’s expression change from interested investigator to horrified bystander. He quickly corrected himself once he saw that I was watching him. He forced his eyes down to his notes, muttering the word "ransom" to himself as he added his thoughts to my story.

 

“Right then...moving on… can you tell me more about Mr. McTavish? How did you come to make his acquaintance?”

 

Next, I told the detective where I had spent most of my time during my “captivity.” The men kept me and an unknown prisoner in the original dressing rooms, filled with old costumes that I had used to create a makeshift bed and to keep myself from freezing to death. A few days after I arrived, chaos erupted from the room next to mine, booming voices rumbling and colliding in chaos from the beyond the brick wall. Once quietness settled around us, I quietly whispered to my neighbor in French, not wanting to risk our captors overhearing us: _“Est-ce que vous allez bien?”_

 

When a voice moaned a weak response, I noticed that the dust rustled in the far corner of the room with the noise. After a hushed round of Marco Polo, we discovered a small passage between mine and my neighbor’s rooms that was hidden by a small table. The hole was just large enough for me to crawl through on my hands and knees. When I scurried through, I found a large man left broken and beaten on the dirty floor. His right arm hung uncomfortably at an odd angle, and when he opened his eyes, they couldn’t focus on just one spot.

 

This had been our decision on how I had met Jamie.

 

“Let me get this straight,” Detective Grey interrupted, “after being kidnapped by a strange group of German-speaking men you befriended another strange, French-speaking man and tended to his injuries.”

 

I smirked. “I am a nurse through and through. I cannot leave a man to succumb to his injuries if there’s anything I can do to help, even if all I can do is hold his hand and offer words of comfort. It is my _duty_ , Detective Grey.”

 

His brows knit together, and he placed the flat end of his pencil between his lips, as if chewing on his writing utensil would help him gnaw away at the layers of my declaration. After a few moments of silence, Detective Grey added a few more notes to his page and waved his hand, encouraging me to continue.

 

I described how I came to care for Jamie as his nurse, setting his shoulder and then examining his eyes and his head. I noticed a lump at the base of his skull, hidden by his thick, red locks. Our captors had been far more brutal with Jamie than they had with me, hitting him hard at the back of his head - which I told Detective Grey was the cause of his temporary blindness. We would have to wait to see if Jamie’s sight would return before we could attempt anything brash or reckless.

 

We waited for Jamie’s eyes to grow stronger, and in turn, our friendship grew in turn. We shared childhood stories, adventures of our youth, and our dreams for the future. Jamie regaled me the legends of his home country Scotland, and in kind, I taught him the histories of the different exotic lands I visited with Uncle Lamb. We often wondered together why we were captured by this gang of brutish men. I had told Jamie of Frank and his secret missions that were a bigger mystery to me than the Holy Grail.

 

“And did Mr. McTavish tell you why he had been captured?” Detective Grey interjected. I

 

shook my head, pursing my lips and feigning pity. “He had no idea. The blow Jamie suffered to his head must have triggered some sort of amnesia. He mentioned that our captors constantly asked about a mission he was on, but he had no recollection of the mission let alone most of the war.”

 

The detective nodded thoughtfully. “You never once thought that might be suspicious? That Mr. McTavish might be lying to you?”

 

My vision blurred with sudden tears, shocked by Detective Grey’s blunt accusation. “Jamie would never lie to me.”

 

My heart began racing as my emotions began to unravel.

 

_Pull it together, Beauchamp!_

 

Modern chivalry prevailed, and I paused for the detective to hand me his handkerchief and for me to collect my emotions before continuing with my story.

 

We had waited patiently for Jamie’s sight and strength to return. The longer we waited, the more bored and disinterested our captors became with us. They grew lax in their practices, lulled into a false sense of security as we baited them with our complacency.

 

A few week before our escape, Jamie overheard a guard whisper that a change of locations was in store soon. We would be on the move away from Scotland, away from familiar territory and on to the unknown. Unwilling to take that risk, we took our only option that offered any opportunity of us returning home. Three nights ago, we staged our escape. Jamie feigned an illness late in the night, drawing guard after guard to his room to check on his well being - or really to ensure that their precious cargo would not perish. After five or so of our captures were disarmed and rendered unconscious, we armed ourselves with their weapons and made a break for it.

 

Once we were free from the hellish theatre, we didn’t stop running until we saw daylight, trekking for days through the Scottish highlands, resting during the day and only traveling at night. As we approached the hills just outside of Inverness, we thought we were far enough away to walk along the roads. We had hoped to flag down a car to take us into town where I had some connections, but quickly we realized our gross error in judgment when we failed to see any cars on the probably abandoned motorway. We then set our sights on Craigh Na Dun to see if we might meet any tourists who might help us, which was when we met Detective Grey.

 

I breathed deeply, relieved that I managed to make it through the tale without completely cracking under pressure. Detective Grey continued to alternate between staring at me with his chin resting in his left palm and jotting notes into his journal. He continued on like this for several minutes even though I had finished speaking long ago, making me paranoid of his thoughts and his written words.

 

Sighing suddenly, he abruptly shut his notebook and stood, retrieving his trench from the back of the chair. “I think I have all I need, Mrs. Randall.”

 

_That was all?_

 

I pressed my palms into the stiff, hospital-grade mattress and stood to meet the detective’s gaze. I squeaked out a last ditch question, “Won’t I need to talk to the police? A sergeant at least?”

 

“No, Mrs. Randall,” he explained with a small smile. “I’m a… _private_ investigator. I have no connection to the police unless they sign a contract with me for a specific case. Even if I were under any contract with them currently, this case is completely under my jurisdiction. A private citizen hired me. I trust you have somewhere to stay near by? I’m not quite finished my investigation, and I’d like to know how to contact you again.”

 

Warmth spread through my chest at the thought of Reverend Wakefield and Mrs. Graham. I prayed that they would be receptive to me and to my unexpected companion. Certainly if the good detective bought my story, then it would be more than enough for the reverend and his housekeeper. I nodded and reached for the detective’s notebook to write down the address of where Jamie and I would probably stay.

 

“I’ll be in touch, Mrs. Randall,” Detective Grey murmured as he turned to walk out of the room. The detective might’ve been satisfied with our conversation, but I still had one question that needed an answer.

 

“Detective Grey!” I called him back into my room. “Would you agree that it’s in poor form to aim your gun at an unarmed woman?”

 

“Why yes, of course!” He agreed, eyes wide in bewilderment at my question.

 

I raised my chin high and confidently demanded my answer. “Then why - on the hill this afternoon - did you aim your weapon at me?”

 

“Miss Beauchamp… Mrs. Randall… whoever you are, I am a trained soldier of her Majesty’s army first and foremost. I was trained to kill my enemies, to shoot their bodies where it would harm them the most. Today, I aimed my weapon where my enemy was most vulnerable - straight at his heart.”

 

And with that, Detective Grey turned on his heel and exited the exam room, leaving me to completely over-analyze what in the fresh hell he meant by that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's soundtrack is Mumford & Sons' Thistle & Weeds https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=81DAIb6l9jI  
> For the record, Detective Grey and Lord John Grey are not the same person. They are related, but not the same being.  
> Thanks for all of the positive feedback & encouragement so far!


	6. Chapter 5: Old Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire confides in Mrs. Graham, and Jamie gets a new modern look. All are surprised when a familiar face shows up.

I sighed as I sank into a leather chair in the Reverend’s front parlor, the weathered hide enveloping me in it’s buttery softness. We had been staying with Reverend Wakefield for about a week, and we were starting to settle into a routine, even though our arrival had been unexpected and rather chaotic. The four of us - the Reverend, Mrs. Graham, Jamie, and myself - would take breakfast together in the kitchen (the ever-brilliant housekeeper had the reverend’s nephew turned adopted son fed and off to school before we woke). It was a casual affair of eggs and toast with hot coffee, fluffy robes, and ruffled bed-head coifs. By lunch, Detective Grey would make his daily visit. Jamie and I would individually chat with the detective over sandwiches, soup, and twenty questions of his choosing. This left the mid-morning and the late afternoon for our personal enjoyment. This morning, the Reverend wanted to introduce Jamie to his barber, which left me with his private library and a good cup of oolong.

 

The delicate china heated my hands, warming my bones from the bitter November chill that had settled over Inverness. I deeply inhaled the smoky, citrus scent of the brew, recalling the last time I had enjoyed a good cuppa at the Reverend’s residence. The strainers in the 18th century were very wide and allowed for large bits of seeds and herbs to pass through the protective metal only to get caught in my teeth. During the war, I would’ve longed for murky, seed-ridden tea. The Yanks told me how they drank their tea - with gauzy white nappies providing a barrier to the smallest particle from passing through. None of these compared to that last tea I exchanged with the Reverend’s housekeeper: rich, smoky, and evocative.

 

_Well? Am I going to meet a tall, dark stranger and take a trip across the sea?_

 

I shivered at the memory.

 

Before I traveled through the stones, I thought Mrs. Graham’s prediction was simply a game, a trick learned from gypsies to earn a spare tuppence in harder times. However, the thought never strayed from my mind that the Reverend’s housekeeper predicted part of my journey from a few tea leaves and the criss-crossing lines in my palms. Mrs. Graham knew something, and she wasn’t telling the whole story.

 

As if on queue, Mrs. Graham leisurely wandered into the parlor with a fresh pot of tea, biscuits, and I’d be damned if she didn’t have a flask of whisky tucked up her sleeve, a flash of silver winking at me just beyond her cuff. With practiced grace, she placed the tray on the solid wood coffee table and began straightening the room. Replacing mismatched pillows and restoring books to their proper shelf, the elderly woman hummed rather loudly to herself a familiar tune:

 

_I am a woman of Balnain_

_The folk have stolen me over again '_

_The stones seemed to say_

_I stood upon the hill and wind did rise_

 

Soft and low, the memory of Jamie’s voice echoed, the warm baritone richly vibrating through my thoughts. I could almost feel his lips brush against the outer shell of my ear, his warm breath tickling my skin. My heartbeat hastened in response at the sudden nearness of him while Mrs. Graham continued with her chores and her work song, completely ignorant to my reactions to her song choice.

 

_And the sound of thunder rolled across the land_

_I placed my hands upon the tallest stone_

_And traveled to a far, distant land_

_Where I lived for a time among strangers_

_Who became lovers and friends…_

 

My cheeks suddenly flushed red as cherries with embarrassment at the forgotten translation as vivid memories clouded my mind. Our legs tangled together, the rasp of Jamie’s rough stubble against my skin, and the pressure building low in my belly before we both reached our peak together were all sensations so vivid to me that my core began throbbing in pure need at the thought of us together. In 1743, Jamie was my husband, and clearly we had both enjoyed certain marital duties, but what did all of that mean in 1945, if both he and Frank were _here_? Jamie and I hadn’t even discussed if he wanted to live in the modern era. He had given me the same choice, and I owed him that much, even if the thought of Jamie returning to the past - possibly without me - turned my stomach sour.

 

Mrs. Graham had moved on to dusting, but she hadn’t changed her tune.

 

_But one day, I saw the moon came out_

_And the wind rose once more,_

_So I touched the stones_

_And travelled back to my own land_

_And took up again_

_With the man I left behind_

 

The man I had left behind was Frank, and I still had yet to contact him since my return. How would I explain this to him? Where would even I begin? For all I knew, I could divulge the entire story to him and come to find the next morning that he had divorced me and had shipped me off to an asylum without a single word.

 

But that wasn’t the Frank I knew. The Frank I knew was kind and understanding. He was thoughtful when I was rash, my mind and body rushing to conclusions while he was painfully patient. He loved me. He wouldn’t leave me flat over a situation that was far beyond my control… but that was the Frank I knew before his wife had mysteriously disappeared without a trace...

 

_Get out of your head, Beauchamp!_

 

If I was going to explain this to Frank, I would need to practice telling my story. It was the only way I had any hope of him believing me, and the perfectly logical test subject was currently dancing right in front of my face.

 

“Mrs. Graham!” I called to her as she was about to exit the room. “Would you mind joining me for a cup? I could use a friend.”

 

The housekeeper smiled at me knowingly, like the grin of The Cheshire Cat. “Why _of course_ , dear. I thought you’d never ask.”

 

_____________________________________

 

Mrs. Graham leaned back into the sofa and sighed wearily as she rested her cup of tea in her lap. The room around me spun a little, whether from the healthy drams of whisky we added to our second and third cups of tea or from the dizzying tale I just told, I couldn’t tell. My fingers tingled from the steady thrum of blood beneath my skin has my heart hammered away behind my ribs. Desperately, I tried to swallow, but my throat constricted tight against the movement. The silence in the room engulfed us, my ears ringing from the deafening roar of the void. We sat side-by-side not speaking for what felt like centuries, and the stillness was setting my nerves on edge. Waiting for Mrs. Graham to speak, I nervously began cross and re-crossing my legs in a futile attempt to distract myself.

 

_Did it work? Did she believe me?_

 

The older woman beside me inhaled deeply. “Ye know, Claire, yer lucky. If yer face didn’t give ye away completely, then I’d have no reason to believe ye at all.”

 

My jaw immediately released, and the tenses muscles in my shoulders rolled down my back in ease. The breath I hadn’t realized I was holding rushed out of my lungs in a large gust of wind, powerful enough to bring the Reverend’s house down. I added another witness to my side.

 

At some point during our conversation, I had relocated to the sofa to sit with Mrs. Graham, though I didn’t quite remember when in the story I had moved. Now, the elderly housekeeper gently patted my knee in comfort and reassurance.

 

“What are ye going to do, dear?” she asked quietly, her voice soft and warm like a knit blanket.

 

_What was I going to do?_ I had traveled through time and then back again. I was married, now twice over to two very different men whom I cared about deeply. In less than three decades, I had been on countless adventures and witnessed unbelievable experiences that most wouldn’t believe without seeing themselves… but was it always by my choice?

 

As a child, I followed Uncle Lamb, resisting the bores and repressions of a proper boarding school. I met Frank, fell hastily in love, and quickly married him before I turned twenty. Blindly, I followed him all over England, like a naive, love-sick puppy… but that was before the war. In the war, I found my duty, my purpose, my passion only to have it ripped away once it was all over, the expectation that I was to return to more wifely duties. Then before I could even blink, I was whisked away to the past and married off to a man who, for all intents and purposes, was a complete stranger. All of these choices guided me to the next stepping stone on my journey, yet all of them were chosen for me by men. Not once was I asked what I wanted.

 

_Who was Claire? Who did she want to be?_

 

I felt Mrs. Graham’s arm brush against mine and turned just in time watch her delicately hold her chin with her slender hand, finely crafted bone and sinewy muscle belonging to the most wise of women. Delicately, her forefinger traced the line of her jaw, while the pad of her thumb brushed against her upper lip. Her gray gaze narrowed, her eyes flashing like the sharpest steel.

 

“Jamie, ye said...” the housekeeper started and then paused, staring intently at the hearth in front of us, “ye said his name was Fraser?”

 

I nodded, clearly stating his full name and pausing in between to emphasize each name, “Yes, it’s Fraser. James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser.”

 

“Of Broch Tuarach?”

 

_How did she know?_

 

“Yes…” I agreed with a shaky breath.

 

Mrs. Graham bobbed her head in response as she rose from the sofa. “I see…”

 

Suddenly I was at my feet, following her path around the coffee table and towards a bookcase to the right of the fireplace. What _did_ she see? I decided to bate her.

 

“Do you know many Frasers, Mrs. Graham?” I asked, feigning innocence. 

 

Bent at the waist, her weathered index finger traced the soft leather book bindings on the shelf. She clucked and whispered to herself as she scanned the titles, searching for a specific tome, dramatically sighing when it wasn’t on that row, and then ducking further to the next row down. After repeating this process a few times over, Mrs. Graham straightened, arching her back allowing her muscles and joints to release with emphatic pops.

 

Hands on her hips, she turned to face me, chewing on her bottom lip. Her eyes darted from right to left as if she were following an invisible mouse across the floor before settling on my face.

 

“When I was small, my gran used to tell me a story,” Mrs. Graham started, “of the Laird Broch Tuarach and a _ban-druidh_ , who was also his -”

 

The front door closed with a heavy bang, and the ruckus sound of male bonding clamored through the first floor. The reverend and Jamie had returned from their outing in a rather jovial mood. Heavy footsteps pounded against the solid cherry wood floors, their weighty presence edging closer by the second. As they rounded the corner I expected to see my second husband with the dear reverend, except I didn’t - my dashing Highlander was gone.

 

In his place stood a suave gentleman of style and grace. He wore perfectly pressed khaki trousers, lengthening his already endless legs. Defining his trim physique, a coppery brown belt anchored his pants at his waist. The modern man crossed his arms across his chest, and the sleeves of his button-down shirt rolled to his elbows emphasized the flexing muscles of his arms. His beautiful copper locks had been shorn short, combed back with pomade in a modern, slicked-back style. While I loved the primal wild nature of my Highlander, seeing him dressed up in the style of a contemporary gentleman made my heart flutter and my head spin.

 

Reverend Wakefield and the very modern James Fraser casually strolled into the living room, full of laughter and secret winks of a gentleman’s outing. Just as they crossed the threshold to the parlor, Jamie’s eyes met mine, and he skid on his heel to an unnatural stop. He grinned widely at me, beaming for approval. The smile was forced, but it lasted as his shining blue eyes remained locked with mine.

 

“Sassenach,” he breathed as he strode across the room in two strides to clasp my hands in his.

 

“Do ye… do ye like it?”

 

Like it? I was positively melting at the sight of him. I combed a stray hair behind his ear, allowing my palm to stray and cup his face as I sang my praises.

 

“Like it? I _love_ it! My very own Cary Grant!”

 

Jamie ducked his head and blushed, the left side of his mouth perking up a bit more than his right. Flashing upward, he looked at me through hooded lashes.

 

“I dinna ken who that is, but isna too much? Ye dinna think me a proud peacock then? Strutting about and preening and such?” Jamie murmured as his hand came up to stroke my cheek, mirroring my act of tenderness.

 

I shook my head, lips curling into an effervescent smile. “No… _no_ , Jamie, it’s -”

 

The hubbub of Jamie and the Reverend’s return distracted us from the normal noises of the house. The soft opening and closing of the door as as if a newcomer had entered the property, the clipped pace of a determined gentleman down the hall, the quiet whoosh of his sigh of relief that his wife had been found and was with good friends all came to a crashing halt as the newest guest joined us in the front parlor.

 

I caught his eye as he crossed through the cased opening and greeted me, “Hello, Claire.”

 

I swallowed hard.

 

_Frank._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The soundtrack for this week's chapter is Cannonball by The Sweeplings: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ctTozwn0IpQ
> 
> This week's chapter also includes a prompt from Gotham-Ruidh's Writing Workshop: The smile was forced, but it lasted...
> 
> Thank you all for the feedback and encouragement!


	7. Chapter 6: Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie reacts to meeting Frank for the first time, and Frank responds to his wife's mysterious return with another man.

“Hello, Frank,” I choked, the two simple words thickly coating my throat like ipecac.

 

From behind me, I heard a strangled, Scottish gasp echoing _“Ah Dhia!”_ throughout the front parlor, and I turned just in time to see Jamie’s face drain of all color and his blue eyes roll back into his skull. Luckily, the quick-thinking Reverend was at his side instantly, supporting the large Scot before he could crack his head open on the solid wood mantle above the fireplace. Adrenaline surged through my veins as my instincts took over any train of thought.

 

“The couch - he needs to lie down!” I ordered, barking commands like a fierce general.

 

Mrs. Graham followed my lead as we jumped to aid Jamie and the Reverend. Staggering under the weight of the massive Highlander, the three of us stumbled across the living room depositing Jamie not-so-gently onto the sofa. Deftly, my nimble fingers slid the top four buttons of his shirt through their respective holes, loosening the restrictive collar around his neck to help the flow of oxygen to his brain. Pressing my fingers to his neck, I found his pulse slightly elevated but steady, his skin warmer than I had expected.

 

“We need to elevate his legs,” I directed. “Reverend, some pillows or blankets, please? And Mrs. Graham, could you fetch a cloth for his head? It should be cool and damp - not dripping wet.”

 

My makeshift medical team set themselves to their tasks, while I continued to monitor Jamie’s vital signs. His chest rose and fell evenly with every breath, which relieved me greatly. As I lifted his eyelids to examine his pupils, he squirmed against the intrusive movement.

 

_Good - just a simple faint then._

 

From the hallway, an exasperated, aristocratic sigh caught my attention.

 

“I’ll be in the Reverend’s study then… when you’re ready to… talk,” Frank drawled. His heavy footsteps echoed down the hall - followed by by the quicker staccato the Reverend’s shorter gait - and away from the front parlor. A pleading Scottish lilt over Frank’s polished yet gruff negations, their accents blended together in inharmonious discord before disappearing into unsettling silence.

 

_I had completely forgotten he was even there._

 

“Sassenach,” Jamie whispered as he stirred to life once more, redirecting my priorities back to my patient.

 

I placed my hand firmly on his chest, directing him to lay back down as he struggled to sit upright. “Easy there, soldier. Can’t have you fainting on me again.”

 

Jamie obeyed my directions reluctantly, eyes narrowing and a smirk gracing his lips. “Seems that this is becoming a habit, aye? Swooning like a wee damsel whenever yer near.”

 

_Bloody charmer._

 

“Enough with the jokes,” I retorted, trying hide a smile that tugged at the corners of my lips. “I need to finish my exam.”

 

Sarcastically, Jamie rolled his eyes at me. “Och, aye... _Mistress Beauchamp_.”

 

The eloquent syllables of my French maiden name made me cringe for I didn’t know who I was to correct him. Was I Beauchamp… or Randall… or Fraser? I avoided the answer by continuing with my examination.

 

I palpated his neck, checking his glands for any swelling and the muscles there for any strain or injury. “Your name, soldier.”

 

“James. Alexander. Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser,” he pronounced his individual names slowly with a hint of mockery shining through beneath his feigned solemn expression.

 

“And how old are you?” I asked, pressing the back of my hand to his moist forehead. The clammy, sickly nature was slowly fading back to his normal ruddy and warm complexion.

 

“Three and twenty,” Jamie snorted and swatted my hands away from his face. “ _Ifrinn!_ Will ye stop fussin o’er me, wumman? I’m fine.”

 

Holding my hands up in mock surrender, I honored my patient’s wishes. “You win! One more question, and I’ll leave you be.”

 

Defiantly, he tilted his chin upwards and eyed me suspiciously through hooded lashes. “Aye?”

 

I smirked, my eyes narrowing at the clever humor of my question. However, I knew I must ask it, even if the outcome were hysterical or comical.

 

“What year is it?”

 

Jamie’s blue eyes flashed like lightning, and before I could stop him, he had firmly grabbed me by my waist and began tickling my ribs relentlessly.

 

I collapsed onto him in a fit of giggles, enjoying the rich laughter that rumbled like thunder from somewhere deep in his chest. Jamie’s arms wrapped around my waist, his hands rubbing warmth into my arms that I hadn’t even noticed were cold. Laying quietly together, I allowed him to warm my body with his. We relaxed into comfortable silence with one another, our patterns of breathing slowly matching so that when I exhaled he immediately inhaled like we were of one body sharing breath.

 

We lay there holding each other close for some time. It had been the first time we had embraced one another since we encountered Detective Grey at Craigh na Dun. We had been sleeping in separate rooms, which left me restless most nights, completely unable to settle and let sleep take me. Even during waking hours, we were cautious with each other, never allowing holding each other’s gaze for too long let alone touching except for brushing fingertips when we exchanged serving dishes at the dinner table. However, now we were alone and free to simply be Jamie and Claire for the first time in days. I nuzzled my face into the crook of his neck, and inhaled deeply, finding while his clothes and his hairstyle might’ve been updated that he still smelled and felt like my rugged Highlander.

 

Amid all the chaos of the past several days, the fact that he remained inherently Jamie was by far the most comforting feeling in the whole world.

 

“Oh!” a voice softly gasped from just beyond the sofa, causing my head to painfully jerk upwards with a sickening crack.

 

Mrs. Graham had returned as promised with the damp cloth I had requested for Jamie’s face and neck, discovering us in the most compromising state: limbs tangled and completely horizontal on the Reverend’s sofa. My cheeks flooded with warmth as they blushed twelve different shades of crimson as I turned my gaze toward Jamie to tell him of our visitor.

 

“Dinna fash yerselves, dears. I’m an auld marrit wumman - I’ve seen much worse!” I heard Mrs. Graham chuckle at our embarrassment.

 

“Let me help ye get settled properly now.” Slowly, we sat upright again - first me and then Jamie with a little assistance from Mrs. Graham and myself. Taking the damp cloth from Mrs. Graham, he mopped his brow, his cheeks, and the back of his neck. When he was done, he turned to me eyes shining and good as new with no evidence of his previous episode to be seen. He handed the cloth back to Mrs. Graham, and his eyes followed her has she left the room, relieving us to privacy once more. Once the housekeeper had gone, Jamie turned to me and took my hands in his.

 

“Claire,” Jamie started, “why did ye no warn me that Frank was related to Black Jack Randall?”

_________________________________

_Later that same afternoon_

 

I found Frank in the Reverend’s study, nursing a very healthy glass of whisky, steadfast in facing away from the entrance with one hand braced on his desk and the other holding expensive crystal filled with whisky. He fit perfectly at home in this scenario, surrounded by books and polished millwork carved to the highest level of detail. He had removed his blazer, revealing his suspenders that emphasized his more desirable features as he refused to turn around and face me directly. His shoulders dramatically rose and fell, his breath deep and heavy as if he had just run a marathon. Frequently, he brought his glass to his lips to parch his thirst.

 

“Remember the last night we spent together? Before…” Frank’s voice trailed off, his wounds too fresh and too painful for him to say the words out loud. Instead, he brought his glass to his lips and tossed back the rest of his whisky in a single gulp before slamming it down on the Reverend’s desk with such force I thought the wood surface might splinter. The abrupt thud of crystal hitting solid cherry made me flinch.

 

Wetting my chapped lips with my tongue, I took several shallow breaths before answering him.

 

“Yes,” I whispered quietly. “How could I forget?”

 

_How could I forget?_

 

The storm… the power outage… the candles… the whisky… the caress of Frank’s hands on my bare skin as we made love that final time… The memory of that night haunted my dreams for weeks after I had passed through the stones. I memorized every word of our conversations and each kiss that we shared. It was the first time I felt Frank and I had truly connected since the War, even if we had fought that night. Still I wondered if I had proved to Frank how much I loved him… or if he still believed I was some ruthless monster capable of shattering his heart.

 

“Do you recall what I asked you that night?” he asked, pouring another large dose and refusing to turn towards me.

 

I gaped like a caught fish, my mouth opening and closing without producing any audible sound.

 

Apparently, he didn’t need my answer, as Frank pressed on in his cruel and calculated interrogation.

 

“I asked you if you had made any… _connections_ … during the war.”

 

_Connections._ The word was coated so thick with distrust and dripping with disdain that it probably tasted vile, for he spat it out like it were spoilt milk and not a simple word. Yes, I remembered the conversation, and I remembered we ended it with me feeling like I had been played for a fool. Apparently, Frank felt differently.

 

I tasted the coppery tang of blood as I bit my cheek to keep from making any noise. I knew better than to speak just now - Frank would use any objection swiftly against me, brutally proving his point and nailing me to the wall with a giant, scarlet A for adultery pinned to my chest.

 

“You said - no - you _swore_ you had been faithful, the picture of fidelity,” he hissed, gripping the glass so tightly I thought it might shatter, “and you lied to me.”

 

_Lied to him_ \- that’s what Frank thought. He thought not only that I had betrayed his trust but that I also lied about doing so. Fraser red flashed before my very eyes. My cheeks flushed, warmed by the blood now surging through my system fueled by my agitated adrenaline. Thick tears coated my lashes like the fresh dew on grass on an early autumn morning. I exhaled slowly, gathering my thoughts and willing myself not to cry. I may not have been raised as a proper lady of society, but Uncle Lamb ensured I was a person of good moral fiber and a liar I was not.

 

“What _exactly_ did I lie about, Frank?” I spat back.

 

I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth. I had given Frank all the ammunition he needed.

 

Back still turned, I watched his stature change. His spine straightened, every individual vertebrae stacking on top of the next like soldiers falling into line. Shaking his head violently to and fro like a lion fresh from a dip in the Nile, he cracked his neck before rolling the muscles relaxed down his back. Suddenly, Frank turned to face me, eyes flashing with anger and jaw clenching in visible frustration. His chest rose and fell with each labored breath, the loud whooshing of every exhalation echoing throughout the room. My heart nearly stopped.

 

_No wonder Jamie fainted. He could be Black Jack’s twin._

 

“The last night we spent together,” Frank seethed, “you never told me you knew him.”

 

“Who did I know?” I asked, my mind positively reeling with what he could mean.

 

“The man standing outside Mrs. Baird’s! The one who was watching you!”

 

The Highlander - a man dressed in full traditional regalia was in the square that night in Inverness. Frank had seen him with his own eyes, but when they past each other in the street close enough to touch, Frank had said that he felt nothing but a cold breeze. He had laughed it off, swearing it was nothing but a figment of his imagination… or did he truly believe this man this man a spirit from another time?

 

“You told me you thought he wasn’t really there,” I reminded him urgently.

 

Frank leaned back, chest proud to the sky before barking out a hysterical laugh before he began pacing lengths of the room. Back and forth he marched like a perfect soldier, stride long and chin held high. With every second lap around the room, he took a long swing of whisky and sighed, holding the spirit on his tongue long enough to breath it in deeply before he swallowed. He continued on and on like this until I was positive I would go mad from the dizziness of it all when he suddenly stopped at the Reverend’s desk once more to refill his glass.

 

“The chap in the parlor was the man I saw in the square that night.”

 

Ice filled my lungs, and my belly clenched as if Black Jack Randall had kicked me again just in that moment. Unable to breathe, I panted desperately against my constricting throat as my eyes flooded with tears. The Reverend’s study spun around me like a carnival ride, and I was certain I would faint on the spot.

 

“That’s impossible,” a strained voice that sounded like my own whispered. “You said it yourself - you thought you saw a ghost.”

 

It was the only plausible explanation - the man in the square was a disembodied spirit. He had to be… or else that meant that Jamie Fraser was in Inverness in late April 1945, which absolutely could not be bloody possible.

 

Frank stood at the Reverend’s desk once more, hands shaking as he tried to replenish his glass without spilling whisky all over the furniture. Slowly, he brought the glass to his lips. His eyes narrowed, and he glanced over at me before he dramatically finished his third drink since I had entered the room not twenty minutes before.

 

When he had finished, Frank gently placed his now empty glass on the desktop. He folded his arms against his chest, leaning against the desk for support as he tucked his chin down low. His left hand came to meet his brow, my gold wedding ring flashing brilliant yellow as it caught the light from the setting sun as he massaged his temples.

 

“Clearly, he wasn’t,” Frank muttered as he slumped further into the desk before pushing of the top with the heels of his hands and lunging towards me.

 

He took one long stride and then two more before he was across the room. I stumbled backwards, frantically trying to escape until he was before me forcing me to sit back deep in the recesses of a club chair.

 

Frank gripped either arm of the chair and loomed above me, his face flushed maroon with anger as a nervous sweat trickled down his temple. A low, frustrated roar passed his lips while he pushed himself off the chair and away from me, sending the chair scooting backwards against the antique rug. He began pacing again, this time furiously raking his left hand through his thinning brown locks and undoing the pommade he had set that morning.

 

Halfway between the desk and me Frank stopped, his confession tearing from his lips in a deafening yell. “He’s a living, breathing man, free-loading off of my closest friend and apparently _fucking my wife!”_

 

Silence followed, filled by our ragged, ill-matched breaths pumping from our lungs and willing us to live and to fight in this moment. It reminded me of the train, when we said our goodbyes before the war. I was on my way to the front lines in France, while Frank would stay behind in the Queen’s safety. There were as many miles between us now, and they were growing by the second.

 

Blinking back tears, I swallowed hard against a hard knot in my throat.

 

“Frank…” I pleaded, “It’s not that simple.”

 

A cruel smile curled at his lips. “So you don’t deny it? God, that’s rich, even for you, Claire.”

 

Then, I stood, defiant in my truth though he may not understand. “No, I don’t deny it.”

 

Weakly, I reached for Frank’s hand as he turned to once again walk away, reluctant to feel my comforting touch. Every muscle and joint in his body grew taught as his cry of anguish echoed through the household, vibrating to my very core and causing my heart to break.

 

“It’s not just black and white,” I sniffed. “It is far more complicated than that.”

 

“I’ve heard enough!” Frank shouted. “Save your lies and deceit for Detective Grey!”

 

_Detective Grey_ \- I had assumed the Reverend had called Frank to his home, but here I was wrong again. The detective had mentioned a private client; furthermore, I could’ve guessed they were mates by the practice linguistics against the obvious tells of a Sussex accent. What I hadn’t guessed is that the ever-practical-minded Frank would still be searching for his missing wife after six months without absolutely zero evidence.

 

We sat on opposite sides of the room now - Frank behind the Reverend’s desk and me in my club chair. We mirrored pouted lips while refusing to ever shed live tears. Our pale faces flushed pink at the coarse and raw nature of our inhibitions. Abundant tears and shouting declarations were barbaric - neither Frank or myself were bred to behave in such a boorish manner.

 

Slowly I rose, elongating my stature to its full height. I would not yield.

 

“Besides,” I proudly declared, flicking an errant tear from my cheek, “Didn’t you once that even if I had an affair that it didn’t matter to you… that you’d still love me in spite of what I had done?”

 

Frank stared at me, flabbergasted in my boldness and security. He poured himself another drink and brought the glass just beneath his nose for a lusty inhale before speaking. “Perhaps I’m a selfish man after all.”

 

Frank tossed back the entire contents of the glass before he left me with his final words looming in the air. He stormed out of the room, abandoning me in a room room filled with books and an empty whisky decanter to choose my fate.

 

“I’m not some pathetic little boy, Claire. I won’t beg. It’s either your lover or me. Let me know what you decide.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The soundtrack for this chapter is Ghosts That We Knew by Mumford & Sons: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IUVCISbpHuE
> 
> Thank you for the kind words and encouragement! Also, thank you for patiently waiting a day for this chapter since I could only queue it to Tumblr while I was traveling.


	8. Chapter 7: Precious Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tension grows in Reverend Wakefield's house following Frank's arrival. Claire and Jamie talk one afternoon about the idea of Jamie returning to his own time and the interesting tales provided by Mrs. Graham.

It had been a week since Frank’s boisterous arrival. Ever the gracious host, Reverend Wakefield quickly extended an invitation for him to stay at his home while he settled matters with Detective Grey. Mrs. Graham thankfully had the sense to put him up in the guest room at the far end of the house, leaving miles of empty hallway for our rage to fill and linger like the acrid smoke from a ruined dinner.

 

A bitter awkwardness had settled around the Reverend’s home in result. Gone were our intimate breakfasts together as a quaint group of four. Jamie, true to his nature as a farmer, would rise at dawn and take breakfast with the Reverend’s nephew Roger. Careful to dodge any awkward encounters, Frank would appear from his room much later in the morning, dressed stylishly for the day. I occasionally caught a glimpse of him from the stairs or in the foyer before he would disappear from the house altogether until just before dinnertime. Between sleeping so late and only re-appearing for his evening meal, Frank managed to avoid me almost entirely.

 

In fact, all five of us walked on eggshells around each other, when avoidance wasn’t at all an option. Jamie and I nearly succeeded in evading one another… or at least we attempted to have one other person in our company so we could evade another incident like the one in the Reverend’s front parlor the morning Frank arrived. Jamie found distraction in helping with various repairs around the house, gaining knowledge of modern tools and technologies. In response, I desperately would try to find ways to occupy myself outside of Reverend Wakefield’s home. Whether it was accompanying Mrs. Graham to the market or tagging along with the Reverend to visit a sick parishioner, I attempted to escape the manse at all costs.

 

I was a sheep without a shepherd today as the Reverend was advising some young men who had interest in a life of the cloth, and Mrs. Graham had some personal appointments to attend. I managed to avoid Jamie at breakfast by accidentally skipping the meal completely. I followed up my indulgent lie-in with an even more decadent bath, taking care to soak, scrub, and polish every inch of my porcelain skin - as Mrs. Fitz would declare.  After taking pain-staking care to style my unruly curls and apply my makeup with absolute perfection, I journeyed into town, wandering from shop to shop before my ornery stomach reminded me that I had missed breakfast. I lounged in a small cafe, slowly and languidly enjoying my early lunch with a glass or three of a rich Cabernet. When the waiter started circling my table, I realized I was the only patron in the cafe, my embarrassment flaming my cheeks a deep claret that rivaled the hue of my wine.

 

Reluctantly, I returned to the Reverend’s home only to find it blessedly quiet.  As if I were walking through a university library or even a hallowed church, I carefully tiptoed towards the study in hopes of spending the rest of my afternoon digging into a good book. I scanned through numerous book bindings and silently prayed that Jamie had found some useful occupations somewhere on the grounds or at the very least, was not in the building itself.. The old stone house was quite large, but an eerie feeling fluttered in my stomach told me the thick plaster walls couldn’t divide us forever.

 

My fingertips brushed against a shabby binding with frayed edges, the title barely visible. I tugged gently - as to not damage the delicate tome - and freed the book from its tight confines between two shelf-mates. The ancient spine unceremoniously flopped open to its favorite page, the worn leather soft and buttery in my hands.

 

The language on the page before me was ancient yet familiar. As I aimlessly strolled round and round the Reverend’s study, I read aloud in English, mentally computing the Latin translation:

 

_Come and let us live my Deare_

_Let us love and never feare_

_What the sowrest Fathers say_

_Brightest Sol that dyes to day_

_Lives againe as blith to morrow_

 

The words of Catullus reminded me of Frank and the whirlwind of our love affair. When we met all those years ago, I had been merely a child, only eighteen years old. However, when you’re young, you don’t know enough yet of the world, of life, or of love to be afraid. Fear comes from experience, and by the time I met Jamie, I knew better than to throw caution to the wind and fall freely into the abyss. I knew that life and love kept the world in check with balances, and the consequences inflicted to preserve this ultimate equilibrium were swift and cruel.

 

_But if we darke sons of sorrow_

_Set, then, how long a Night_

_Shuts the Eyes of our short light!_

 

Was this now my punishment?

 

Disgusted with the very sight of me, Frank couldn’t bear to be in the same room as me. Jamie didn’t dare look me in the eye for fear of whatever unwanted truth my glass face would betray. Was I doomed to live in isolation for the rest of my days because I had - in desperate self preservation - become a bigamist?

 

_Then let amorous kisses dwell_

_On our lips, begin and tell_

 

In my solitude, I grew restless, yearning to feel a man’s touch on my body. My mind flitted to the memory of what was supposed to be my last night with Jamie. He had roused me late in the evening with his lips pressing passionate kisses to mine and his fingers stroking my center, stars bursting behind my closed lids. Warmth pooled deep in my belly - whether it was from the wine at lunch or my strong arousal at the recollection I couldn’t be sure. Drowsily, my lashes slid shut as my hand snaked up my body to cup the weight of my breast and the next lines fell from my lips:

 

_A Thousand, and a Hundred score_

_An Hundred, and a Thousand more._

 

From behind me, a deep voice joined with mine to recite the last two lines, pulling a surprised gasp from my lips and making me jump like a puppet suddenly drawn by it’s strings. The book tumbled from my shaking hands and landed on the antique rug with a soft thud. The voice transformed into a chuckle, teasing me for my clumsiness.

 

“I didna mean tae startle ye, Sassenach.”

 

The rousing, warm timbre of his brogue made my face grew hot. Frantically, I tried to control myself, my breathing so fast and shallow as if I’d run a marathon. I nervously tugged at my shirt and my hair in hopes that I didn’t appear too disheveled. I tried to move, at least to make an attempt to retrieve my fallen book, but with my sudden embarrassment, my knees had forgotten how to bend and my feet were glued firmly in place.

 

_How much had he seen?_

 

The plush rug dampened the usually heavy steps of Jamie’s normal cadence, yet I still felt him drawing nearer to me with every soft creak of the wood floor underneath flexing to accommodate his weight. He met me just beyond the sofa, his chest a hair’s breadth away from my back. The buttons of his shirt brushed against me with every inhale, and his breath tickled against my neck with each exhale. Slowly, I felt him gracefully crouch down behind me. His arm deftly slid around my frozen legs, the hairs there tickling my ankles as his hand retrieved the discarded book.

 

When Jamie rose to his full height again, I slowly turned in the circle of his arms to face him, the fabric of our shirts barely touching as chests heaved with each breath. Keeping my eyes trained on my feet, my hands subconsciously rose to the level of my ribs in a meek attempt to create some sort of barrier between us. Nervously, I spun the silver band on my right ring finger and barely halted the gasp that threatened to fly from my lips when I realized its meaning.

 

_I was still wearing both wedding rings._

 

“I uhm… I…” Jamie stammered before me, his stutter breaking my thoughts. “Ye ken Catullus, then?”

 

Laughing like a nervous school girl, I backed away from his far too intimate and familiar embrace. I began pacing the outer perimeter of the room, hands folded just above my tailbone and my spine held straight as a ram rod. Once I cleared a good bit of distance between us, I swiftly turned to face Jamie, and walking backwards, I eyed him through narrowed lids.

 

“My education might’ve been a bit unorthodox, but my Uncle Lamb did make sure I knew the classics,” I teased, sticking my tongue out as a finished my declaration for the added measure of maturity.

 

Jamie nodded, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I never doubted it, Sassenach."

 

He started on his own path around the Reverend’s study, walking in the opposite direction. We traced concentric circles around the Reverend’s study - Jamie the outer circle always protecting me in my inner lane. Our paths crossed at two points - north and south - within the room, where occasionally our hands met or our shoulders brushed, causing us each to jolt from the sudden shock. Every time our bodies accidentally made contact, I could’ve sworn the spark would have set the entire house up in flames… or at least my body felt as such.

 

I had started counting our circles after the second as a mere distraction to see how long we’d walk before we spoke. Clearly, I broke first.

 

“What have you been up to all day?” I asked after our fifth lap, desperate to break the tension in the room.

 

“No’ much… a few chores here and there,” Jamie admitted sheepishly. “I did speak with Mrs. Graham, once she returned from her errands.”

 

_Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, Mrs. Graham!_

 

Until this very moment, I had entirely forgotten our previous conversation from the day Frank arrived. Had that really only been a week ago? I had told the housekeeper everything down to the very last detail, divulging every last sin left in my soul, determined to be understood.  I prayed that I hadn’t spoken out of turn.

 

I felt my throat tighten as I tried to speak, and my voice rising to an uncomfortably high pitch. “Oh? And did you have a nice chat?”

 

He nodded with a muttered _“aye”_ as we continued pacing and he further explained their earlier conversation. “She thinks she kens of a way to send me back.”

 

Jamie continued leisurely pacing the room as if he had just explained how he took his tea, while I, on the other hand, was desperately trying to gain some semblance of control on this runaway carousel before my emotions betrayed me. The room spun around me, the woodwork and the scholastic hues of the books all whirling together with their gold embossed titles flashing with the late afternoon sunlight. It left me with a spinning head, a tender stomach, and an inept ability to reign my emotions in check.

 

Before I could reign myself in, all of the air in my lungs suddenly left me, a piercing whine whistling through my pursed lips and ricocheted violently throughout the Reverend’s study. I faltered and stumbled over a minuscule lump underneath the oriental rug. Pausing with my weight balanced on my toes, I managed to stall just before I tumbled, my numerous thoughts equally suspended in the delicate balance of this brief silence.

 

“And what did she suggest?” I managed to choke out, my tongue feeling thick and sluggish around the syllables, their shape foreign in my mouth.

 

Time slowed, elongating the space between my heartbeats to the length of small infinities rather than mere seconds. The words that passed through Jamie’s lips were muffled as my ears felt suddenly clogged like I had been submerged in water. Our movements matched that of mythical creatures that lived in the depths below - slow, languid, ethereal. Whether it was from the endless circles around the study or from my indulgence at lunch, I suddenly felt very dizzy. The edges of the room were tinged just a shade darker, as if I had been deprived from oxygen for far too long and unconsciousness lurked behind me ready to pull me under completely.

 

When I came to the Reverend’s desk again, I gripped it tightly. The solid wood beneath my palms anchored me, steadying me as the floor swayed beneath my feet again. Closing my eyes, I breathed deeply before turning around to lean against the desktop.

 

As I opened my eyes again, I found Jamie still pacing the room. His eyes were alight with excitement and his cheeks flushed pink with exertion of his animated explanations. At the base of his neck, stray locks of hair began to curl, reluctant to conform to the pomade he must’ve applied this morning. The style and the scent of the pomade reminded me of Frank, and his attempt to comb it out caused my heart to squeeze, clench, and then reach for the rugged man that I once knew. With his sleeves rolled up, the muscles of his forearms flexed as his hands wove the details of his conversation with Mrs. Graham into an elaborate story.

 

Suddenly, Jamie stood still in the center of the room with his hands on his hips, highlighting his trim physique. His eyes narrowed, as the corner of his mouth quirked up in a small smile, making my heart race and my breath stop short.

 

“Sassenach? Did ye hear anything I just said?” he teased, my distraction becoming more and more obvious by the second.

 

“Sorry,” I mumbled as my cheeks flushed warm with my embarrassment, “please continue.”

 

Jamie nodded, his thin-lipped smile straining to suppress a chuckle at my expense. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he resumed pacing and explaining his earlier conversation with Mrs. Graham right where he left off, as if I had been truly listening the entire time.

 

“She didna say she was certain it would work...” he shrugged with a hint of doubt creeping into his tone, “but there are two full moons between now and Yuletide. It couldna hurt to try…”

 

Darkness threatened to claim me once more as the room spun around me. I slammed the palm of my hand flat onto the desk, the loud slapping sound echoing throughout the room and causing Jamie to turn towards me in surprise.

 

Our eyes locked from across the room, brown meeting blue and unlocking the passages to our secret selves as it always happened when our eyes met. We laughed it off, giggling nervously at the sudden rush of that all too familiar intimacy. It burned deep within me, and I saw it glow within him as well, the flames threatening to engulf us both. Still, I hesitated, knowing that if I surrendered to his warmth, all would go up in smoke.

 

“Do you want to go?” I eventually whispered, my voice sounding thin and small, like that of a small child. Over the past week, we hadn’t dared to talk of such things, but now that Mrs. Graham’s offer loomed over us like storm clouds threatening a perfect spring afternoon, I had to ask the obvious.

 

Jamie’s cat-like eyes narrowed as my words reached his ears. He rocked slightly, shifting his weight back to his heels and then forward again to the balls of his feet. Taking his bottom lip between his teeth, he chewed the flesh there lightly, making me wish I was tasting those lips.

 

“Do ye wish for me to stay, then?” Jamie asked abruptly, drawing me back to the present and knocking every last breath from my lungs.

 

_Did I want him to stay?_

 

I certainly didn’t want him to leave - that was for damn sure. If he were to stay, my hand would be forced. I would have to chose between Frank or Jamie, but was I ready to decide? There was no way to have them both. I couldn’t demand friendship in the same breath as issuing heartbreak, and these men were far too prideful to graciously accept second prize in this race. All might be fair in love and war, but even the victors never escaped without scars. How was I ever to chose?

 

For now - at least - I chose not to decide.

 

“What else did you and Mrs. Graham talk about?” I asked changing the subject to a topic I hoped was more neutral.

 

“More of the old stories,” Jamie mused, shuffling his feet against the plush rug as if to push some imaginary dust out of his path. Rather than standing tall and proud as he normally did, his shoulders slumped in defeat at my non-answer to his question. My heart ached, wishing I could embrace him fully and whisper the secrets of my soul, but I could not. He perked up suddenly, eyes flashing with excitement. He stepped a little closer towards me, his left hand reaching out to me with a question.

 

“Did ye ken there’s one about the Frasers?”

 

“She mentioned it to me the other day,” I shrugged crossing my arms in front of my chest, guiding my heart even if it was a futile effort, “but we were interrupted before she could finish. What was it about?”

 

Jamie’s large hand waved my request off, as if he were swatting at an annoying insect. “Tis just an auld wives tale, a story ye tell wee bairns to get them to sleep.”

 

“Will you tell me?” I asked, my voice softening slightly and my arms falling loose to my sides, relinquishing any momentary boundaries I placed in ignorance.

 

Easing my weight backward, I pressed the heels of my palms into the desk, lifting myself to sit on the table top. I crossed my legs rather suggestively and arranged my skirt to cover my knees to feign some semblance of propriety. All the while, I eyed Jamie coquettishly across the room through my eyelashes. He nodded, his gaze catching mine again as he started towards me. He stalked me like a hunter tracking his prey with his shoulders slung low and a wolfish grin plastered across his face. As he inched closer towards me, Jamie’s eyes grew bright with excitement, and he began to tell the fascinating history of the Lovat Frasers and their notorious seers.

 

_During the reign of William the Lion, the first Simon Fraser held lands in East Lothian at Keith, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted to be a great ruler - to lord over all of Scotland as it’s king. To start, he made a pilgrimage to Kelso Abbey, where he made an offering to the Tironensian monks in hopes of pleasing God so that he may be blessed with lands and riches. The monks could not offer him the material wealth he desired, but instead they offered him a young orphan child who was rumored to have special fortune-telling abilities. Shortly after acquiring the child, Simon’s lands expanded into Stirling, Angus, Aberdeen, and Inverness, and the Fraser clan grew strong, wealthy, and powerful. The orphan stayed with the Frasers, started his own family, and his lineage grew to be the most powerful line of seers. Several generations later, one of those seers went on to make an interesting prophecy: that the heir of Simon Fraser and a ban-druidh would bring forth a king to rule over Scotland._

 

Still perched on the desktop, I sat frozen in place, mesmerized by the fantastical tale. The prophecy itself left me feeling unsettled with nervous thoughts buzzing in my ears like bees. _A Fraser and a ban-druidh…_ I shook my head at the ridiculousness of it all. It was just a story - an old wives’ tale! There was no more truth to this story than to that of Hansel and Gretel or Snow White... yet I had said the same thing about time travel and magical stones.

 

Could the prophecy truly mean Jamie and me?

 

A familiar ache filled my chest, settling into my hips as it expanded. Recalling the the date on the calendar, the pain of knowing this cycle would be yet _again_ fruitless tore through me, stronger than the pains of labor. I would not and could not be a mother.

 

_No, the prophecy was certainly not about me…_

 

A cough from above me broke through my rather bleak thoughts. In the time he took to tell the story, Jamie had crossed the spanse of the study and now stood before me, my skirt-covered knee nearly brushing the fabric of his trousers. I tilted my chin upward to peer into his eyes directly. They were smiling, of course, and always the most beautiful shade blue that could rival Loch Ness on a clear day, but there was something else there I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It might have been sadness or a touch of homesickness, but before I could be sure of my guess, Jamie shook his head, rearranging his features into practiced neutrality and hiding his true feelings.

 

“Tis just a story,” he explained, “nothin to upset yerself over.”

 

I sighed, doing my level best to sport a brave smile. “So the prophecy… it’s not about you, then?”

 

Jamie’s large hands came to rest on the desktop next to mine. Looking down towards my right hand, his thumb was next to my pinky, close enough that I felt the comforting heat radiating from his skin. As if it had a mind of its own, my pinky jerked, brushing the base of his joint with my knuckle. A surprised gasp escaped my lips while sparks bloomed beneath my skin where we had accidentally touched and heat pooled deep in my belly. Jamie’s thumb lifted tentatively, and slowly, he brushed the carved thistle blooms of his wedding band on my ring finger. The tenderness of the small gesture sent wave after wave of forbidden pleasure through my system I had to bite my lip from crying out loud.

 

“Claire,” he breathed.

 

Cautiously, I turned my face upward to look at Jamie directly. His eyes had gone dark - nearly black with desire - and both of our breaths were coming in shallow pants as if there weren’t nearly enough oxygen in the room for both of us. The pink tip of his tongue darted out to wet his lip, and I subconsciously mirrored the action, feeling my own tongue against my lips wishing it was his.

 

“They didna mean me…” Jamie whispered, his lips hovering just above mine.

 

The front doors burst open noisily, and from the sound of it, a pair of drunken elephants trampled through them and into the foyer. The loud crashes caused both Jamie and me to leap away from each other in surprise. Jamie stalked to one end of the room, raking a hand through his hair and muttering in Ghaidhlig under his breath. I sought shelter behind the Reverend’s desk and quickly rearranged my skirt into a more modest state before our unexpected visitors materialized in the doorway to the study.

 

Frank appeared arm in arm with none other than Detective Grey. The pair were clearly three sheets to the wind and jauntily singing an old war tune in two very different pitches that to their ears probably sounded like perfect harmony.

 

“Guess who’s joining us for dinner!” Frank drunkenly cried from the doorway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The soundtrack for this week's chapter is Hozier's From Eden: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cI0wUoCLnLk
> 
> This chapter also includes a prompt from Gotham's Writing Workshop, Week 11: We didn't talk of such things.
> 
> Thanks again for all of the wonderful comments and support!


	9. Chapter 8: No Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire prepares herself for a dinner party with Frank, Jamie, and Detective Grey, while both of her husbands grandstand for her affections. Jamie learns more of Claire's life in the twentieth century.

For the first time since our return, we dressed for dinner as if we were one of the old, noble English families, donning the best of whatever was available from our present wardrobes. I half wondered if it was just another excuse excuse - a ploy Detective Grey and Frank pushed on poor Mrs. Graham so they would have an hour or so to sober themselves before dinner.

 

While the men were distracted by general pleasantries, I stole away to my room with a full decanter of whisky. If I was going to make it through a formal dinner with not only my first husband in attendance, but also my second husband and Detective bloody Grey, I would need a strong dose of liquid courage to carry me through this inevitable battle. Hiding away in my guest chambers, I welcomed the distraction, as well as the opportunity to cool down from my prior interactions with Jamie and to prepare myself mentally for this evening’s affairs. I took my time, arranging my hair in a fashionable chignon and touching up my make up - this time staining my lips a bold, red hue.

 

If I had procrastinated with adjusting my hair and make-up, then dressing must’ve taken hours; for while I had been previously engaged, a mysterious, taupe garment bag appeared in my room, hanging ominously on the closet door. A shoe box along with a pair of real silk pantyhose also had materialized just at the foot of my bed. As I unzipped the garment bag unearthing a fashionable gown in a rich emerald fabric sized perfectly to my measurements, I became more baffled by the second at by the odd appearance of these clothes. Fabrics of this level of finery hadn’t been available in years. While I questioned the motive behind the clothes, I still wore them to dinner and reveled in their luxury… even if it was only for one night.

 

Before leaving my room, I examined myself - both personage and conscience - in the full length mirror in the far corner of the room. I had hoped this dress would have stirred strength and courage from deep within me, but the plunging neckline and the curve-hugging fabric only made me feel completely exposed. I longed for my thick wool skirts and layers of petticoats to cover my bare flesh and to shelter my numerous lies. Even though I surely didn’t miss my restrictive corsets, the green belt at my low waist squeezed just a tad too tight, crushing me like a boa constrictor as if it intended to press every ounce of truth from my gut. I smoothed the last of the wrinkles from the bodice, breathing deeply in an attempt to rally every last nerve in my body to obey the simplest of orders.

 

_Deep breath. Pretty smile. Don’t say anything foolish._

 

______________________

 

I descended the stairs carefully and picked up the skirt of my dress, as not to trip over an ill-fitting hem only to find the dress had been expertly tailored to my exact measurements. My heart ached for the crooked, mismatched hem lines As I approached the bottom of the staircase, the sight in the foyer caught me off guard, robbing me of all the oxygen in my lungs.

 

When I first saw him at our wedding, I had found the sight of my Highlander in full regalia to be completely breathtaking, but now, I fiercely gripped the banister to keep myself from tumbling down the last few steps.

 

My Scotsman was dressed to the nines in a full tuxedo, and conveniently, he faced away from me, craning his neck to check the grandfather clock in the front parlor. Admiring Jamie without his knowledge gave me a thrill and sent my blood thrumming through my veins. The pressed pleats of the black slacks elongated the length of his already tall stature. They drew my eye upward, and my mind wandered to memories of the perfect curve of his buttocks, the toned fleshed I had grasped in passion with my own hands now hidden by the fabric of his trousers. Distracted by my amorous thoughts, a thin, breathy moan escaped my lips unchecked as the silky green fabric slipped through my fingers and fell to my feet.

 

Jamie’s hips flexed and twisted suddenly at my interruption, and he turned to face me. His eyes locked with mine instantly, flashing a brilliant shade of sapphire before growing dark with an obvious desire. In a few long strides, he was at the bottom of the stairs, ready to escort me the rest of the way.

 

“That is… an _interesting_ garment, Sassenach,” he commented with a smirk, offering me his arm in chivalry.

 

My flushed cheeks managed to blush an even deeper shade of magenta. “You like it, then? The gown?”

 

Jamie nodded, muttering his approval under his breath before he began clucking like an old hen. “Is this the fashion in your time, then? Parading about half dressed?”

 

I rolled my eyes just as I descended the final few steps only for Jamie to turn towards me and catch the offending reaction. Cocking an eyebrow, he took my hand from his elbow and held it gently before brushing a tender, chaste kiss to my knuckles.

 

“I like it fine, Sassenach…” He whispered leaning in towards me, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “I’d like it better if I knew which husband yer display was for…”

 

My vision blurred, and I swayed suddenly at the meaning of his words. Of course, I mentally chastised, a woman couldn’t just dress for herself, for the sake of padding her self-esteem. It had to be for… _someone_. I just didn’t know who that someone should be.

 

I felt Jamie’s hands at my elbows, steadying me and jolting me back to the present. He muttered low in Ghaidhlig, reassuring me, comforting me. When I caught the word _breagha_ rolling from his lips, a sudden memory of us nestled in bedclothes, our limbs deliciously intertwined when the Ghaidhlig word for beautiful passed Jamie’s full lips the first time… Flustered, I blushed and waved off his attentions with trembling hands.

 

“It’s not much,” I laughed, attempting to shake the unsettling feeling in my bones. “I don’t even have proper jewelry for the occasion!”

 

Fraser eyes narrowed into cat-like slits. Raising a finger in protest, Jamie’s free hand dug deep into his breast pocket and unearthed a small velvet pouch. He gently held the belly of the purse in the palm of his hand as if he were sheltering a baby bird. The fingers of the opposite hand dove deep into the neck of the pouch and stretched it wide before delving deeper. Heat pooled deep within my belly at the untended innuendo, but as Jamie revealed his mother’s strand of Scotch pearls, my breath caught and thick tears coated my lashes.

 

“These... belong to you, _mo nighean donn_ ,” Jamie whispered as he raised his arms to place the pearls around my neck.

 

Once the necklace was secured in place, I lifted the beads from my chest, holding the weight of their meaning away from my heart for a moment to catch my breath.

 

“Where? How…?” I stuttered, my questions colliding together like the cars of a runaway train who’s conductor had just slammed on the breaks.

 

Jamie blushed, his ears even flushing pink. “Murtagh… I had him collect a few things from our rooms at Leoch. We met just outside the kirk… just before...”

 

His words faded into silence because the story need not be retold. The witch trial… my flogging… my freedom at Gellis’ expense… my chest ached with the painful memories. Would my safety always come at someone else’s sacrifice? First my parents, then Uncle Lamb, and of course Gellis - all had suffered some sort of atonement for the sake of my preservation.

 

I couldn’t offer up Jamie’s heart to save face.

 

“Jamie… I can’t…” I struggled to find the words as I lifted the pearls from my neck, “I can’t accept these. They don’t belong -”

 

He pressed his pointer finger to my lips briefly, long enough for my knees to buckle at the shocks of pleasure that racked through me from our singular point of contact. Conceding, I nodded slightly, and he removed his finger only to still my hands from removing the pearls entirely. “They have always been yers,” Jamie insisted softly, “… no matter whom ye choose.” Our arms fell to our sides and we stood as mirror images of each other. Perfectly poised and chests heaving with unspoken desire, we could’ve been starlets in the latest Hollywood drama, destined for some ill-fate that would separate us for 20 years.

 

“ _Mo ghraidh_ , I -” Jamie started, raising his hand to brush a stray curl from my cheek, when a voice called out to us from the stairs above.

 

“Claire!” Frank cried, his resonance echoing off of the wood paneling in the foyer. “Ah, I see you found my gift - you’re an absolute vision!”

 

I swallowed hard as Frank and Detective Grey joined us in the foyer. Closing my eyes and breathing deeply, I felt my first husband sidle in along side of me as my second drifted away. His cold fingers clutched mine, as he tucked my hand into the crook of his arm, his physical sign of his intention to escort me to dinner. My fingers subconsciously sought out the firm muscle of his bicep, searching for Jamie’s strength to physically protect me, only to find a professor’s slim and lanky physique. The flesh beneath his suit jacket was temperate and it didn’t radiate the extra heat, I’d grown accustomed to, and when Detective Grey made Frank laughed, the sharp points of his elbows carelessly jabbed my ribs painfully, which felt like proper execution for an adultress in the site of her proper husband and her illicit lover. We started towards the formal dining room with Jamie and Detective Grey following our lead. While I gazed upon the walls, looking anywhere else but at my first husband, I could feel Frank’s eyes memorizing every detail, admiring his prize.

 

“Those pearls are lovely, darling,” Frank commented as patted my hand, the flesh of his palm cold and uninviting against my skin. “Wherever did you find them?”

 

I felt my words catch in my throat as my toes nearly tripping over my gown. I took an impossibly long stride, kicking the hem of my skirt out before me to keep myself from stumbling, and I breathed deeply, hoping Frank was looking anywhere but my face as I simply stated, “They were... a _gift_.”

 

____________________

 

I had forgotten how lonely modern dinners could be. At Leoch, the fellow guests tried to include me in their conversations. Even if I had nothing of substance to add, I was still welcomed as an active listener. However, in the Autumn of 1945, I was a spectator - a woman to be admired and spoken of frequently, and not at all heard.

 

My jaw held steady. I had been clenching the joint for over an hour - minus respites to chew food and shoot back as much whisky as I could stand - and my muscles in my neck and my shoulders were starting to fatigue. The men, however, saw no end in sight as both Frank and Detective Grey continued in their endless stories, though it appeared that neither man had seen any real action like I had. Time and time again, I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at their glorified tales of gallantry from behind shielded desks in a cozy office while I had been at the front, covered in mud and usually freezing. Just to my right, Jamie would frequently nudge or nod at me frequently with a secret wink, acknowledging my frustration in their feigned suffering. He, too, knew the difficulties of sleeping many nights on the cold, hard earth and the true fear of knowing the next breath might in fact be your last.

 

As Detective Grey began on another boring tirade, Jamie’s fingers brushed mine again, and I bit the inside of my cheek to control my reactions. I silently thanked and cursed Mrs. Graham had for seating us the traditional manner - husband across from wife - so that I was seated directly across from Frank and next to Jamie. Frank could look into my eyes at any given moment and catch my unguarded reaction; however, Jamie could touch me with skilled, undetected transgression. It was my only relief from Frank’s stern and almost judgmental gaze, those brief moments that Jamie’s fingers brushed against mine, their accidental yet definitively purposeful caresses hidden beneath the white tablecloth. I welcomed their comforting warmth, occasionally allowing my digits to dance with his while they were given some privacy.

 

Jamie’s hand fiercely grasped mine as he voiced his own question for the first time, jolting me from my dreamy half-listening and nearly drunk state.

 

“Now that the fighting is done, Mr. Randall… where will ye go?” Jamie asked plainly.

 

“To Oxford,” Frank explained, refilling his glass with whisky, “to teach...history that is.”

 

He then offered the decanter to Jamie in kind, and the Scot accepted it, filling his glass to the same level Frank had filled his.

 

“And is it… safe?” Jamie asked, his words halting and unsure, as he lifted his cup, tilting the edge towards Frank in a subtle toast, before draining its contents.

 

“Safe?!” Frank barked before draining his own glass. He slammed the crystal down hard. Reverberating through the table like a rolling wave, the sudden shock made us all jump as Frank casually reached for the decanter to replenish his whisky.

 

He passed the serving carafe to Detective Grey, who in turn passed it to Jamie and then to Reverend Wakefield. All four men enjoyed another dram, toasting the Queen and their safety from the perils of war, before passing the decanter around the table again once more.

 

As if he were slapping his thigh humorously at a joke, Frank suddenly smacked the serving glass down onto the table as he found Jamie’s meaning. “Oh you mean the planes still flying overhead!”

 

I watched from the corner of my eye as Jamie swallowed hard before nodding slightly and his complexion growing pale. While Frank’s sleeping quarters had been placed down the hall, Jamie’s room was only a few steps from mine. I heard his reactions to the sudden, low flying aircraft through the walls late at night, his cries usually waking light slumber. Ever the warrior, he rarely succumbed to a deep sleep, and I couldn’t imagine him surrendering to such a state now, especially with large, mechanical aircraft frequently flying over Scotland.

 

“It’s perfectly safe,” Frank confirmed, waving off Jamie’s concerns as if they were errant cobwebs. “The university has providing lodgings for us on fashionable street with the rest of the professors and their families.”

 

Jamie nodded, his grip on my fingers loosening slightly. He tipped back another glass of whisky before refilling his glass and my own.

 

“And while yer at university all day, what will Claire do?” he asked, his fingers drumming impatiently against the wood table top.

 

What would I do in post-war England? To be honest, I hadn’t had a moment to think on it. I had lived my life from one moment to the next, never planning too far ahead. Whenever I attempted to organize my plans too far in advance, they always ended up the messy shambles of chaotic karma. No, I had no ideas on what my life would be like as the wife as a university professor... but that didn’t mean I hadn’t thought what it might be like as the wife of a rebellious, Scottish outlaw either.

 

“Whatever she likes I suppose…” Frank said cooly. He shrugged before he knocked back another dram of whisky and then pouring himself another once his glass hit the table.

 

Holding back a sarcastic scoff, I coughed into my napkin to hide my utter disbelief.

 

_Whatever I like… was that really so?_

 

I could not imagine my life in proper society being as liberal as Frank had just explained. While my time spent in 18th eighteenth century Scotland had been far from easy, I still felt myself longing for the freedom of those endless hills filled with soft grass and purple heather. Without needing any prompting, Frank prattled on like the over-exalted and now rather drunk professor he was.

 

“She could attend school,” he rambled, “Nurse’s training that is. A proper education - none of that rogue, sloppiness she gleaned on the front lines, but proper training. Then she could work in a hospital or a doctor’s office…”

 

Frank smiled to himself, pouring another dram of whisky. Mrs. Graham had long excused herself to fetch dessert from the kitchen, and Detective Grey, I thought, might fall asleep at his place setting at any moment. It was then I noticed my left hand clutching my own whisky glass, still thankfully full. Frank’s wedding ring flashed angrily at me each time Jamie’s hand gripped mine beneath the table, and now it winked at me, taunting me in remembrance of all of my transgressions that I promised before the law and God that I would never commit.

 

A cough from across the table broke my thoughts. Frank lifted his glass and took another swig before continuing on his diatribe, painting the picture of the life he saw for us, “Of course... that is until motherhood comes calling...”

 

At Frank’s boisterous declaration, Jamie suddenly dropped my hand as if it were a burning coal. My cheeks flushed, embarrassed by Frank’s boldness and the sudden disconnect from Jamie’s comfort. Mrs. Graham appeared with a pie at the same moment the mood in the dining room fell eerily somber.

 

Chair legs scraped roughly against wood floor as Jamie pushed away from the table and rose to stand. His cheeks flushed red, and his eyes blinked rapidly against unshed tears I could see gathering at the corner of his deep, blue eyes.

 

“I dinna feel up to dessert this evening, Mrs. Graham,” he apologized, ducking out of the dining room with a slight bow of his head. “Good evening, to ye all.”

 

My ears strained to follow Jamie’s steps as he left us, my aching heart echoing the heavy thud of his footsteps through the front parlor and up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's soundtrack is Taylor Swift's Delicate: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tCXGJQYZ9JA
> 
> Thank you all for the kind words and weekly encouragement.


	10. Chapter 9: Facts vs. Fairy Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following their interesting meal, Claire and Frank share some truths with one another over a bottle of whisky.

The night crept by slowly. Dragging on endlessly, seconds seeped into minutes and minutes trickled into hours. Time kept its own pace and refused to obey the laws of physics. It had been hours since Mrs. Graham had cleared away our lavish dinner and all of the guests had retired to their rooms... yet I was still wide awake.

 

Following dinner, I was completely unable to settle myself for this evening’s rest. The evening’s events had set my nerves on edge, making the very marrow of my bones rattle with nervous energy at the slightest sound. Reverend Wakefield - ever the gentleman - had provided me with the biggest of his spare rooms, which boasted a small sitting room with a fireplace. Tonight, I kept a roaring fire to guard against the chill that had settled over the entire house, seeping into the very woodwork and making me spontaneously shiver at any given moment. A storm had rolled in around midnight, and whether the brisk conditions in the Reverend’s house were due to the meteorological conditions or the emotional turmoil within his home was still to be determined.

 

I sat rigidly with my spine perfectly aligned in one of the wingback chairs in front the fire. Even though dinner had ended hours ago, my bones buzzing like the stones at Craig Na Dunn. My hand shook slightly as I brought my whisky glass to my lips thankful for my foresight to bring the full decanter to my room hours earlier. Breathing deeply, I inhaled the rich aroma of the spirit, enjoying the salty and smokey flavor notes as they mingled on my palette. The whisky mixed with my blood, and yet I still felt that vibrating hum within me, the alcohol unable to suppress my nervous energy.

 

From the front parlor, the grandfather clock called out the hour, its ringing bells reverberating through the wood floors from below. The chimes struck once and then again, and each time I shook with the clamour. The house then fell silent, so still that the smallest mouse would have alerted me to its scurrying. I hadn’t accounted for the sudden stirrings that soon followed the annunciation of the hour.

 

A door opened slowly, its hinges painfully whining with the effort, and slipper-padded footsteps followed. I recognized his walk, the wooden floorboards creaking with his steps and revealing the obvious pattern of his gait: the soft shuffle of a professor attempting to quietly sneak through the stacks unnoticed. A floorboard groaned beneath him, and a muttered curses fell from the lips of my late-night companion.

 

_My first husband was awake._

 

My breath quickened as Frank’s activity in the hallway stilled. An uneasy silence covered the house like a thick blanket, muffling the sounds of the steady rain outside that pelted my windows with icy droplets, and I shivered as another sudden clap of thunder crashed overhead. My entire body shook not just from the thunderous boom that rattled the windows, but also from my own stress, which was only amplified by the knowledge that Frank was just outside my door. I held a thought at the tip of my tongue that if spoken out loud would become the answer to my question, and I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer.

 

Before my rational mind could argue with my stubborn pride any longer, I made my choice.

 

I rose from my chair and padded softly towards the door. The metal knob felt cool in my hand as I turned the handle. The latch clicked softly, and I pulled the door towards me. The corridor sconces glowed brightly, splashing their warm light on my feet without providing any true heat against the evening’s chill. I stepped through the open doorway into the light, and I examined the man before me.

 

Awkwardly positioned, Frank had frozen uncomfortably mid-step with one foot dangling in the hair in the center of the hallway. His mouth hung open in surprise, and his eyes were wide as his pupils darted from one corner of the corridor to the next. The entire scene almost made me pity the drunken fool.

 

“Still awake, I see?” I said coolly, as I leaned into the door frame and hoped he would buy my false bravado buffered by whisky. When he didn’t answer, I continued to taunt him. “Looking for a night cap, then? Haven’t you had _enough_ , Frank?”

 

Playing the role of the perfect hypocrite, I then tossed back the rest of the whisky in the glass I had carried with me.

 

Frank placed his foot down and sighed. Obviously flustered, his cheeks stained pink as he stuttered a few times to voice some thought, for I could see his mind working over all while chewing his bottom lip. Frank could only play cool and coy for so long before his energy ran out… or he grew too drunk to keep up the rouse to hide his various idiosyncrasies.

 

Yet, in this moment he surprised me.

 

Frank straightened, his posture mirroring a perfect soldier. His arms held fast by his sides, and his expression settled into leveled solemnity.

 

“Yes, I was on my way downstairs to grab a drink… however…” He drawled, the corner of his lip curling up, “... I think we’re a bit over do for a chat, you and I…”

 

I swallowed hard as the intention of his words hit me like a runaway train. Frank wanted to pick up where we left off; the last time we had truly spoken to one another was over a week ago in the Reverend’s study. The memories of the abrupt and volatile reunion still haunted me, and I gripped the door frame behind me with my stray hand to hold me steady.

 

“Alright,” I agreed with uneven breaths rattling from my lungs, “We can talk… but I have… conditions…”

 

Franks stature relaxed ever so slightly as he shrugged, “Such as?”

 

Crossing my arms in front of my chest, I rolled my eyes and laughed. “ _Such as?_ The least you could do is apologize for your behavior the past few days…”

 

“Like how you apologized for disappearing for the last several months?” he spat back so fast I didn’t have a chance to think.

 

I choked on the last remaining drops of whisky that burned my throat. My eyes narrowed as if they could shoot daggers at the sniveling and vengeful man before me, and yet, I knew deep down I was also at fault. I had committed unforgivable sins for reasons Frank did not even know let alone understand. I owed him an explanation, my side of the story at the very least.

 

“I deserve that,” I admitted as I pushed my bedroom door fully open. “Will you at least let me explain? I have a good bit of whisky to get us through… or at least half knackered…”

 

We both shifted uneasily at the question, first Frank’s feet and then mine followed suit, my body acknowledging its former match. His head tilted to and fro like a bird receiving mixed messages from the wind until he finally nodded in agreement before following me into my room.

 

Frank selected the chair opposite mine as I poured us generous helpings of whisky. I returned to my seat with both of our glasses and the decanter for additional servings that I knew without a doubt we would require.

 

“This reminds me of the last night we spent together at Mrs. Baird’s,” I reminded him with a weak smile, “The storm… the fire… the whisky...”

 

Drawing his glass to his nose, Frank deeply inhaled the whisky’s bouquet before taking a large sip and chewed the liquid indelicately.

 

“Will you just get on with it?” he snapped. Blood boiling, I breathed deeply, allowing the air to whistle between my teeth as I exhaled.

 

“Fine,” I seethed, “but you will listen to my side of the story in its entirety and without questions. Once I’ve finished, we can go over any details you wish, but you will hear the whole adventure first. Understood?”

 

He nodded, slowing acquiescing to my terms, and thus beginning the longest night of our lives. I took my time, slowly picking apart the minute details of the past six months of my life. After I had finished my tale the first time, Frank quietly asked me to retell it. We continued this pattern a few times over: I rehashed the varying elements, Frank nodded appropriately, and we both consumed inhumanly advisable portions of whisky. Around the fourth retelling, he began asking questions, his natural inclination toward history taking over. We reviewed dates and locations until certain parts of my story were ground to a fine enough pulp to make our own paper on which we could write the story down and probably publish a book. On several occasions, we paused to refill our drinks, replenish the wood in the fire, and stretch our legs.

 

Below us, the grandfather clock intoned the hour, four lonely bells crying out into the night. My bones ached, and my eyelids itched for a moment’s rest. I nestled into the wing of the armchair, closing my eyes for just a minute and enjoying the brief respite that settled upon us after the chimes quieted themselves.

 

I nearly gave into sleep when Frank’s murmur broke through my near-sleep fog.

 

“I believe you.”

 

_______________________________

 

_I believe you._

 

The simple statement echoed through my bones, jerking me upright like an unexpected alarm clock rudely awakening me. I stretched drowsily and rubbed the sleepiness from my eyes.

 

“You… you what?” I yawned as I came alive in my armchair.

 

He chuckled before answering in his all too familiar condescending tone, “I said that I believe you.”

 

The words hit me again like waves crashing relentlessly on Brighton’s beaches amid the rough winter season. Salt met sand, and the rough grains grated against one another in total disbelief.

 

“But… why?” I asked, rather stupidly.

 

Frank rose from his chair, stretching languidly like a cat before refilling his glass with whisky. His hair stood on end from endless hours of combing through his locks. His lower eyelids were heavy with purple bruises broadcasting his sleepless night, but his brown eyes were alert, shining with activity and knowledge.

 

“Because I decided to of course,” he sneered as the gentle liquid slug of whisky met his glass.

 

I rolled my eyes at his obnoxious yet sarcastic candor. Frank never believed anything without proper reason or research. My ridiculous fairy tale should have required a full research team from Oxford and my beatification from the Pope… and yet he believed me.

 

“Would you care to explain?” I asked, refilling my own glass of whisky, “or will it remain a mystery?”

 

Frank sighed, taking a sip of whisky and then another before muttering under his breath.

 

“You told your half of the story, so I will share mine,” he offered. “About a month ago - just when the local police had given all hope of ever finding you - Mrs. Graham told me the stories her Gran had told her… tales of fairy hills and some woman who who traveled through time by simply touching a magical stone… like the one we visited at Craig Na Dunn.”

 

In the middle of a sip of whisky, my breath caught and I nearly choked. _The Woman of Balnain._

 

Frank continued, regardless of my apparent distress. “I didn’t believe her...well that was until Grey called me…”

 

_Detective Damn His Eyes Grey._ He was always here, even when he wasn’t. I constantly felt his presence, just behind me at my shoulder. He constantly lurked, loomed, and peered into every crevice of my life to the point I no measure of privacy left even when I used the facilities.

 

_Detective Grey managed to be quite literally everywhere._

 

“Who is he?” I demanded once I regained control of my faculties. “Neither one of you has explained your friendship…”

 

“Clearly you weren’t listening at dinner,” Frank scoffed. “We were in the service together.”

 

I blushed furiously. I had hoped my distracted state during dinner had remained beneath the table cloth, but clearly, my glass face betrayed me once again.

 

Still ignorant to my reactions, Frank blazed ahead like a runaway train, “Anyway, right after I had given up all hope of ever finding you, Ben calls me -"

 

Whisky glass replenished, I collapsed indelicately into my chair as I screeched, “Ben?! Who the hell is Ben?”

 

Frank had joined me in his own chair before the fire before answering the question in a tone that towed the line between arrogance and annoyance. “That’s his name - Detective Benjamin Grey - this also came up during dinner.”

 

In the middle of sipping my whisky, I nearly choked again, this time the thick liquid and the harsh truth colliding and blocking my airway. Throughout the whole meal, I thought Frank was the one ignoring me, but with all of these missed details now laid out before me, I began to question my concept of reality. I had traveled through time - twice - but I couldn’t correctly recall facts I had apparently learned just hours ago.

 

_What was wrong with me?_

 

Of course, Frank pressed on. “Ben called me because he recognized your face from the notices in the paper. I was surprised to find out he was not only in Scotland but also researching his family history… just as I had been.”

 

_That bloody research again_. It infuriated me six months ago, and it had similar effects on me now. I never understood Frank’s obsession with his genealogy. Between my recent adventures to the past and my not so fortunate run-ins with one of his forefathers, I could not fathom why his ancestors fascinated him so. I wondered if his obsession with Black Jack Randall would continue now that he knew the captain’s true nature.

 

The thought of Black Jack made my blood run cold. Now and then, I saw glimpses of the dubious captain in my first husband, in the way he held a glass of whisky, resting the bowl in his hand as he waved it around while weaving a tangled web of logic and fact…how he cocked his head when he knew he had caught you in a lie… the way his eyes narrowed whenever he was suspicious… Frank had repeatedly done all of these things throughout the night, and each time that Black Jack made surprising appearance, I bit the inside of my cheek hard in hopes the sharp, sudden pain would keep my traitorous features in check.

 

His chin tilted as his lids tapered impossibly further as he lectured on. “As it turned out, Ben’s ancestors also fought at Culloden along side my own.”

 

The word _Culloden_ piqued my interest, almost as much as the detective’s connection to Black Jack Randall, and I returned to the conversation as an active participant.

 

“Who was Detective… I mean Ben’s ancestor?” I asked, correcting myself at the last minute. At the back of my mind, a vague thought crossed my conscious, thin and fleeting as it may be. A long forgotten memory of this person - Benjamin Grey’s ancestor - danced at the recesses of my mind. I could feel it just at the tips of my fingers, and yet each time I tried to reach for it, the memory wriggled out of my grasp. I let the memory go, but the heavy frustration from my lack of success and the knowledge of that memory left me feeling uneasy.

 

Tilting his whisky glass toward me, Frank acknowledged my question, “He was an officer and a lord. The Duke of Pardloe was his formal title, I believe.”

 

“Well then,” I said, slightly annoyed to be surrounded by even more loyal Brits, and returned his toast, “his family clearly are true, loyal subjects to the Crown.”

 

“Not quite...” Frank started as he rose from his chair. Slowly, he crossed the room, stopping just at the foot of my bed where he had discarded his bathrobe hours before. I hadn’t turned my head to follow his path, but from behind me I heard the distinct rustle of papers. I could see Frank digging through his pockets for some historical document in my memories, as I’d watched him do on so many occasions.

 

“The Duke was married to a salacious woman who was apparently a Jacobite spy…” Frank said, a small smirk gracing his lips as he returned to his seat next to me, “Ben had found her wanted posters from The Rising, as well as ones for the Fraser Witch, who resembles you quite closely.”

 

_The Fraser Witch._

 

The very words made my blood run cold. Memories of Crainsmuir were still fresh in my mind - the shouts of the angry mob... the hard ground of the thieves’ hole at night… the fresh sting of the whip as it bit into my flesh. These vivid memories caused waves of cold panic to gnaw at my belly. Hoping it would warm me better than the fire or the whisky were at the moment, I clutched my robe tighter to my chest as I strained to focus on Frank’s words.

 

“He didn’t have any pressing cases at the moment, so he offered to help find you. I was intrigued by your eighteenth century doppelganger, so I accepted his assistance. Once Ben discovered you and Mr. McTavish at Craig Na Dunn, he called me to ask me to come to Scotland, so we might continue the research he started,” he said in a rather somber tone, “and so I could see with my own eyes where your heart now resided.”

 

_Where my heart now resided?_ How did Frank - or Detective Grey for that matter - know the answer to that question when I didn’t have the answer myself?

 

“Finding a portrait that simply matched yours could’ve been mere coincidence, I wanted solid proof… which I found yesterday afternoon. Reading the documents sent both of us reeling, so the only thing we could think to do was get absolutely smashed,” Frank muttered as he passed the first piece of paper to me. “I don’t know whether I should be grateful or outraged that didn’t marry him using my name.”

 

_Outraged?! Oh he would see rage alright._

 

I slammed my glass on the table between us, and the sheer effort forced the delicate table legs to shake. I dug the heels of my hands into the seat cushion beneath me and pushed myself forward so that I was literally sitting on the edge of my seat.

 

“I told you - it was for my own protection!” I seethed. “That bloody ancestor of yours was a sadistic maniac! I couldn’t link myself to him without risking certain death!”

 

“And taking a traitor’s name doesn’t?” Frank spat before rolling his eyes and downing the rest of his whisky.

 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

 

“I was going to burn this along with the marriage contract when you caught me in the hallway, but it’s all the better you see it,” he admitted bitterly as he roughly thrust another piece of paper into my hands. “I told you - Ben found a wanted notice for the Fraser Witch listed with his ancestor Minerva. Once we found your marriage contract linking you to Fraser, we knew it was you.”

 

I swallowed hard as I unfolded the mimeograph to reveal its hidden secrets and gasped when I found my own likeness staring back at me. My eyes were narrowed fiercely and my jaw set firm, as if I were taking down some menacing foe. My curls wildly framed my face in Medusa-like ringlets that very well could have been real snakes judging by the inky blackness of the charcoal sketch.

 

I sat there for quite some time, ignorant to the minutes ticking by and to Frank. Mesmerized by the complete impossibility, my fingers traced the outline of my face over and over again while I repeated on question in my mind, echoing like a clanging bell.

 

_How?_

 

The grandfather clock in the parlor chimed again, this time ringing out five times signalling another hour had passed. Frank coughed softly, and I then noticed he was no longer sitting next to me but standing at the door, clad in his robe once more.

 

“When… when…” I struggled to find the words as tears pricked the corners of my eyes.

 

“Around 1745-1746 is my best guess - give or take a few months,” he whispered.

 

I nodded, allowing the truth to settle around me. My heart raced, hammering behind my ribs, and my palms grew moist with a nervous sweat. Quickly, I placed the mimeograph down as not to damage it before wiping my hands dry on my robe. For the first time in weeks, I felt as if as the overbearing weight I had been carrying had disappeared entirely.

 

_I would go back… back in time and back to Jamie._

 

And yet… I’d be leaving Frank... again. I would most likely never see him again, and with the discovery of these wanted notices, it didn’t feel like I had much say in the matter. My stomach suddenly lurched - whether it was from the whisky or the discovery of a choice that I didn’t completely necessarily understand, I wasn’t entirely sure.

 

_How was I to chose?_

 

Frank’s behavior had been far from acceptable the past few days, but he was still my first husband and my first husband at that. I took a vow, and I hadn’t intended on breaking it. For better or for worse, I owed it to Frank to work through what divided us now before completely abandoning ship.

 

I would be abandoning Jamie then, which didn’t feel right. My throat tightened, and my joints grew ridged at the thought. I had made a promise to him as well, and the ancient Ghaidhlig words along with the exchange of our blood felt just as binding as my vows to Frank, possibly even more so. We had a connection - that much was obvious. I felt it deep within me, a piece of my soul calling out to Jamie even when we weren’t together. What was it that Gellis had said in the thieves’ hole? When I slept, when I was most vulnerable and exposed, I called out Jamie’s name in my dreams. It’s as if my entire body and soul knew that Jamie and I were one, clandestine soulmates possibly… and yet was a title as romantic and binding as soulmates enough to make a marriage work?

 

“Claire,” Frank called to me, breaking me from my thoughts, “it’s just a bloody piece of paper. It doesn’t mean anything - unless you want it to. I won’t gravel at your feet -”

 

“No, you’re too cynical for that,” I joked while blinking back tears. It made Frank smile, and the tension between us eased ever so slightly.

 

“That I am,” he agreed. “All I ask is whatever you decide to do, you make that choice because it is what you truly want.”

 

I returned his small smile and nodded. He offered me a mock solute before turning around and shuffling out the door. The house slowly rose with the dawn, the sounds of the early morning echoing through the quiet halls. My bones ached with tiredness, but in spite of staying up all night and drinking far more whisky than anyone ever should… I was still wide awake. My entire body hummed with a question.

 

_Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, what was I going to do now?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's chapter includes a weekly prompt from gotham-ruaidh - Wide Awake.
> 
> This week's soundtrack is Fleetwood Mac's The Chain: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lpVCL00fPAc
> 
> Thank you all for the feedback & support!


	11. Chapter 10: After The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire tries to talk to Jamie after her surprising conversation with Frank to tell him what she knows.

_The Next Morning/Later On That Morning_

 

I stumbled down the stairs just as the grandfather clock chimed eleven. My bones ached from sitting in that stiff wing chair all night, and ugly purple bruises stained the skin beneath my eyes. My blood was probably pure Scottish whisky by now, but I didn’t care.

 

To be perfectly honest, I wished I was numb, as every inch of me felt battered and raw.  I had hoped for a typical gloomy, rainy Scottish day so I bury myself in a sea of blankets and sleep the day away.  Instead, picture perfect blue skies greated me.

 

The sun was shining brightly through windows, and it ricocheted off of the crystal chandeliers, splashing colorful rainbows on the plaster walls and sending my nerves into hyperdrive with a migraine looming over the horizon.  As I reached the bottom few stairs, an errant beam hit me square in the eyes, instantly blinding me. Eyes closed, I groped for the bannister to keep myself from falling and twisted my torso painfully in the wrong direction, which further agitated the aching muscles in my low back.  My legs shook from the force of the spasm in my spine, and I took a moment to steady myself with several deep breaths. A buttery scent wafted from the kitchen, and the aroma of cinnamon and baked apples flooded my senses. The comforting fall bouquet should have warmed me, easing the chill deep within me, but instead I fought the urge to vomit.  

 

Outside, a bird whistled a cheerful chorus, its melodic song soaring with endless passion.  It was persistent, the sound of its chirp moving as it sought a better perch from which to share its heart.  This was a moment, the sort of day that crooners like Bing Crosby would sing about with shooting stars and wild dreams…

_ Oh would you like to swing on a star _

_ Carry moonbeams home in a jar  _

_ And be better of than you are _

_ Or would you rather be a mule… _

 

I definitely felt like a mule - stubborn, selfish, and careless.  I wanted nothing more than to dig my heels into the ground and halt time from moving forward.  Last night’s - or really this morning’s - revelations did little to ease my obstinance. According to the warrant for my arrest in 1745, Jamie and I would go back in time, but why?  Why would we go back? Why would I leave Frank _again_ and what reasons would I give?  Why was I publicly known as Jamie Fraser’s wife in Scotland when he was a wanted man, hiding behind the alias of McTavish, when last we were there?  

 

Question after question danced circles around my head until I felt dizzy… though the hangover might’ve been _slightly_ responsible.

 

Hoping that the fresh air would ease my symptoms, I decided to walk the grounds.  With the weather being so ideal, I guessed that Jamie might attend to some chores outside, soothing his need to be close to the earth.  I longed to be close to him and to talk to him. With Jamie near, I always felt at ease, and whenever we spoke, I instantly felt relief in the ability to speak my mind honestly, no matter how brash or impolite my thoughts may be.  After my long discussions with Frank, I needed to confess, to unburden my soul from the sin of knowledge of the future… and of the past. 

 

When Jamie had rescued me at Crainsmuir, once I had told him everything, I’d felt an instantaneous  relief. I was lighter somehow in sharing my truth, the burdens of my facade lifting with my confession.  I hoped the same feeling would follow if I told him what Frank had revealed to me and apologized for his first terrible behavior... not only over the past few days but especially the night before.  

 

I cursed myself for staying at dinner, for not running after him and fixing things then and there.  I had remained at dinner, almost permanently glued to my seat not because I wished to maintain some level of decorum… but because if I was truly honest with him and with myself, I was bloody terrified.

 

My marriage to Jamie had been one of convenience, and we had been truly lucky.  Not only did we get along quite well - most of the time at least - but we also matched each other physically.  We built the foundation of our marriage on friendship, trust, and passion… but we never discussed what would happen if one of us wanted _more_.  If I had followed him last night, then I’d have to admit to my scariest truth, to the deepest secret I kept locked safe in my heart far away from my rational mind.  I _could_ … I _might_ … but I wasn’t sure.  I was even more wary of his feelings towards me and his potential reactions than I was of my unresolved feelings towards him.  Jamie could easily reject me, cast me aside for someone more willing and less complicated like Laoghaire, and then where would that leave me… leave _us_?

 

No, I couldn’t risk my heart like that, but it wasn’t fair to sacrifice Jamie’s feelings to protect my own.  Unfortunately, the damage was already done. Even though I could apparently travel in time, I couldn’t change the events of last night.  All I could do was apologize profusely and hope Jamie could find it in his heart to forgive me. 

 

Searching, I ventured into the gardens behind the house and found my Highlander elbow deep in mud.  Last night’s storms had wreaked havoc on the Reverend’s landscape, and Jamie set himself to mend every last broken fence post.  The sight before me made my hangover instantly disappear, and any discomfort I felt before was replaced by the ache of pure longing to feel his skin against mine.

 

While I had thoroughly enjoyed the novelty of Jamie in a classic tux the last night, I had forgotten the appeal of the more casual, working man before me.  The tails of his shirt hung loose, and with every twist of his body, I caught a glimpse of his perfectly toned abdomen with russet hairs trailing below his trousers, which lead me to imagine a number of wicked, blush-inducing fantasies.  I saw us together everywhere - hiding in the heather with my skirts bunched at my hips as we writhed on the ground like snakes… giggling as he took my hand and guided me towards the shed so we could make love slowly and reverently behind the privacy of closed doors... leaning against the fence while he took me from behind, as he once thought we could on our wedding night...

 

I blushed at the thought of these vivid daydreams only to notice the hugh of Jamie’s skin matched my own.  Every last inch of his skin flushed pink with exertion that he closely resembled a strawberry that I desperately wanted to taste.  I wondered how he would respond if I knelt before him now, completely willing to put his pleasure before my own and relishing in the fact that he would be at my total mercy… 

 

Shaking my head to clear my mind once more, I raked my hand through my hair and fluffed my curls.  I noticed that today Jamie hadn’t slicked his hair back with pomade. Errant ringlets dipped in front of his eyes as he bent his head to his work.  Before I knew what was happening, I was walking towards him. I stood before Jamie, smiling sweetly as I brushed the stray curls from his face before kissing him deeply.  His strong arms gathered me to his chest, pressing our bodies together and creating that delicious friction I craved. My knees buckled as his tongue begged entrance to my mouth and...

Unexpectedly, a wood rail split from Jamie’s efforts, and Ghaidhlig curses filled the air, jolting me to the present.  Both of our heads jerked up, and our eyes locked. Hundreds of half-finished, implicit thoughts travelled between us in that moment:   _ I want to… I need to...  I should tell you… I’m sorry for… _  The greenery between us swayed as if to match the vollying of our spoken words rather than the breeze that now ruffled Jamie’s shirt tails.  I clutched Mrs. Graham’s borrowed shaw closer around me to gain some warmth as well as a sense of modesty. 

In less than twenty-four hours, we were in the same position all over again.  We were completely respectable to the common passerby, and yet our blush stained cheeks and awkward glances told a completely different story.  With a single look, Jamie made me feel completely exposed, and a dozen winter coats let alone Mrs. Graham’s old shaw wouldn’t provide enough coverage.

“Hello,” I said sheepishly, my eyes casting downward while my feet kicked the dirt beneath them.

Jamie returned my greeting with a slight nod and a muttered  _ aye  _ as he continued on his work.  He barely acknowledged my presence and went on replacing the now broken rail.  Even though he was doing his best to ignore me, I pressed on with resilience. 

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” I asked, leading, hoping he would take any bait I threw at him.

Again, he responded with a rather Scottish sound under his breath - neither answering me or acknowledging me fully.  I noticed his furrowed brows knit tightly together and his lips pouted into a perfect frown. I hoped a good night’s sleep would have resolved his mood from last night’s dinner, but his anger seemed to have tripled overnight.  Something was clearly bothering him still. 

“Jamie,” I pleaded as I took a timid step in his direction, “Can you at least talk to me?”

His blue eyes flashed wildly as his lips drew taught into a thin line.  With a guttural exhale, he threw the mallet he was holding into the ground with such force that mud splashed from the point of impact and splattered Jamie’s clothes and face.

“And what is there to say, Claire?” Jamie spat, taking a handkerchief from his back pocket to mop his brow clean of dirt and sweat.  

The harshness in his voice surprised me, and while nervously twisting my silver wedding band on my finger, I stumbled over my reply.  “I… I wanted to apologize…”

“ _ Apologize… _ ” he scoffed, his blue eyes narrowing to slips as he sized me up from across the garden. “What good will that do?”

I tried to meet his gaze, but every time I ended up more flustered.  My heart was hammering behind my ribs, and it sent blood rushing like a wild river through my veins, crashing loudly in my ears and making the garden in front of me spin.  Closing my eyes, I breathed deeply, allowing the steady pace of each inhale and exhale to slowly bring the spinning world around me to a halt. I continued turning my silver wedding band in hopes the action would anchor me and help steady my shaking hands.

“Jamie,” I quietly started to speak again as I opened my eyes,  “About last night, I shouldn’t have just let you run off like that. I owe you an explanation...”

The wind picked up, increasing from a soft breeze to a steady gust blowing against the treetops.  Ominous clouds loomed just beyond the treetops, and the blue of Jamie’s eyes darkened to match. A storm was brewing - above us, around us, and in all the spaces between our distant hearts.  

Jamie crossed his arms in front of his chest, and I did the same, subconsciously mirroring his actions but also wrapping my shaw around me for warmth.  He clenched his jaw, the muscles working to keep his thoughts locked tight inside, else his tongue betray him before he was ready to speak. His eyes were cast downward, staring at the patch of grass just behind my left heel.  His piercing gaze could’ve burned a hole in the earth, and yet his eyes darted to and fro, not truly focusing on anything at all.

“More words, Claire?” Jamie whispered defeatedly as his arms fell to his sides and he lifted his chin to look me directly in the eye. “They’re all that’s left between us now, and I canna tell the honest ones from the false anymore...”

The sadness in his voice nearly broke my heart, and I blinked back tears that threatened to roll down my cheeks.

“I know the past couple of weeks haven’t been easy for either one of us, but I need a little more time to figure out - ”

“Ye’d ask  _ more _ of me?” Jamie interrupted, his tone and the mood shifting quickly from sadness to anger.  “I’ve given ye time, Claire, and plenty of it. I would’ve waited two hundred years if ye asked! But that’s no’ enough for ye, is it?”

In two long strides, he closed the space between us until our chests were nearly touching with each heavy breath.  Jamie towered over me with our faces barely inches apart, and his lids narrowed even further, as if he dared me to commit to some secret I had hidden from him.  I couldn’t bare to look him in the eye, to face the truth of my feelings I had buried deep within me. I looked down in an attempt to avoid his gaze, he took my chin between his thumb and pointer finger, forcing me to look into his face.

“I’m the one that’s been patiently waiting for ye to make yer choice in yer own time,” Jamie seethed, his voice rumbling low in his throat. “I have been completely faithful to ye all while yer the one entertaining two men!”.

I placed my hands against his chest and pushed him away with all my might as a roaring yell tore from my lungs.  He stumbled backward then, mostly in surprise and less from the force of my blow. With his back to me, he walked to the other side of the garden, giving our anger and our screams plenty of room to grown in place of flowers and shrubbery.

_ “Entertaining two men?! _ ” I screeched.  “Where do you get off, you bloody -”

He turned suddenly, his voice rising to a deafening roar and his fists clenching tight preparing for an inevitable fight.  “Christ, Claire! I saw him leave yer room!”

A surprised gasp escaped my lips before I could stop it.

_ Frank. _

Jamie had seen Frank leaving my room only a few hours before.  While both Frank and I knew that nothing had transpired between us, anyone passing him in the corridor could’ve easily assumed the opposite.  We were man and wife after all, and there wasn’t anything untoward about a married couple spending a night together without a chaperone…  _ unless half of the married couple was also married to someone else. _

My stomach turned at the thought of my obvious bigamy.  I easily could’ve had my cake and eaten it too, but I hadn’t.  The fact that Jamie thought I had played both of my husbands made my blood boil.

“Ye don’t deny it then,” Jamie hissed, “Ye… spent the night wi’ him. Together.”

I sighed frustratedly, forcefully exhaling through my nostrils as I held my hands up in mock surrender.

“If you’d let me explain…” I said through gritted teeth, desperately trying to control my tone.

He shook his head and waved me off from a distance as if he were swatting away an annoying insect.  “There’s nothing to be done, Claire.”

Off in the distance, a flock of birds chirped wildly, heralding the impending storm overhead.  A chill ran through me, and an uneasy weight settled in the pit of my stomach. The air crackled with electricity as if it prepared for lightning to strike at any moment.  I crossed my arms in front of my chest, and when I tried to rub some warmth back into my limbs with my own hands, a static spark zapped my hands, sending my arms flying from the shock to match the birds above us.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked, choking on the words as my throat tightened as I struggled to breathe.

“After I met Frank in the hallway and he confirmed my suspicions, I went to find Mrs. Graham... ” Jamie explained, his words trailing off into the wind that swept up around us.

_ Oh God no... _

“It’s clear I dinna belong here - that I’m not  _ welcome _ here,” he corrected himself before continuing his declaration.  “I’m going back to where I belong - to my time -  _ alone _ .”

The sky darkened to match Jamie’s tone, Lightening cracked over head, though I could’ve sworn it was the sound of my own heart breaking.  The thunder followed shortly after, causing the earth beneath my feet to tremble and shaking me to my very core. The storm was settling overhead, and there was no turning back.

“This it then? The end of us?” I demanded, thrusting my chin into the air to keep it from wobbling, blinking quickly to keep the tears at bay.  “You’re calling it quits at the first sign of trouble?” 

Jamie left his corner and crossed the garden to meet me at my side, pausing at my side so that we stood shoulder to shoulder, and yet faced completely different directions.  He raised his hand to my cheek, and I flinched involuntarily, recalling his rougher actions from only moments ago. Softly, his fingertips grazed my cheek as he brushed a stray curl from my face.

“Dinna be mistaken, Claire,” he said, his voice straining to remain level and calm.  “This is no’ an easy decision. The only honorable choice I have is to issue my surrender to yer  _ true  _ husband.”

His pressed his lips to my skin, just behind my ear, before muttering words in Ghaidhlig I had never heard him say before:  _ Tha gaol agam ort, Sorcha. _

Jamie’s parting words weighed heavily on my heart as the sky opened up, and the rain disguised my heart-wrenching sobs.

_ I couldn’t bring myself to go inside. _

I found some shelter leaning against the Reverend’s shed.  The lip of the roof provided some protection from the rain, but it wasn’t at all adequate.  Within moments, my clothes were soaked and sticking to me like a second skin. Errant curls escaped their confines and dangled across my forehead.  The stray tendrils funneled raindrops through their coils until fat water droplets dripped down my cheeks and mixed with my own tears. 

A lightning strike cracked somewhere in the distance, and thunder rumbled shortly after, rattling window panes with its superior strength.  The rain continued to fall in steady drops, increasing from time to time to full sheets of water, but it showed no sign of stopping anytime soon.  No break in the weather would encourage me to leave my safe harbor, nor would anyone come looking for me in this mess.

_ Jamie would… _

I tossed my head back into the solid wall behind me, hitting the wood harder than I’d intended as stars twinkled against my closed eyelids.  Wet curls softly smacked my face as I shook my head violently to clear my head of any thoughts of my Scottish husband. I hissed from the pain - whether from the physical injury or the emotional one was unclear.  All I understood was that all pain from this point on was self inflicted.

_ It was all my fault. _

Why I went through the stones… why we had to be married… why we came back… why Jamie wanted to go back to his own time - all of it was my fault.  There was nothing I could do to fix it now, and I had no clue what the hell I was supposed to do.

What I wanted to do was fling myself at Jamie, surrender every last bit of my soul to him and beg him to take me back to Lallybroch with him.  He would hoist me into his arms and carry me off into the sunset towards home, to Lallybroch, and yet, I couldn’t. Jamie didn’t want me anymore… or at the very least he was giving up any claim he thought he had on me.

I never imagined Jamie as the surrendering type.  I always saw him as a true soldier, giving all of himself and then some when the going got tough.  When we were wed, he gave all of himself to me then, granting me his name, his family, his clan, and the protection of his body if needed.  He had given me the key to Lallybroch, his home, fashioned into a ring not only to anchor me to him but also to protect the secret of his true identity.  Jamie laid every last inch of his soul at my feet. Ever since we had travelled through the stones, I felt it all slipping away, both of our holds on one another as the pressures of the modern world forced our decisions.  I had all of him, then most of him, some, and then none of him… and I once thought we were strong enough to survive anything, even this battle.

I thought that this -  _ what we had _ \- was different.

I couldn’t help but think of the night we first met.  The memories played in my mind on repeat like an old film stuck on its reel.  Even with his shoulder sticking out at an odd angle and his face smudged with dirt, Jamie had looked absolutely breathtaking.  The way his red curls framed his face and the fire highlighted his sharp cheekbones and chiseled jaw made him seem more like a carved marble statue of a Greek god than a real man, but he  _ was  _ real.  I remembered how his hand was warm in mine and how the moment our fingers touched a jolt of electricity pulsed through me, shaking me to my very core.  Just one simple touch set my entire body on fire, and I wanted nothing else but to feel more of it, even if that meant burning until there was nothing left of me but smoldering ash.

_ No, nothing had ever felt quite like that before… _

And yet, I had survived without it.  I lived twenty seven years without that ground-shaking, earth-ending passion, but I hadn’t known anything different of love until then.  Could I go on living my life knowing that a part of me was missing too?

The thunder rumbled low in the distance as the rain began to slow to a steady but light drizzle.  Our time was up, and the storm was advancing to wage war with another part of the Scottish landscape.  Everything around me was moving on - the fleeting storm, the setting sun, even Jamie - but I was stuck, stubbornly refusing to move like that damn mule Bing was singing about.

The last of the raindrops trickled away, and the clouds gave way to clear skies and sunshine.  Its light was weak, but still the far off star fought to dry the rain-soaked earth and my tear stained cheeks.  A light breeze ruffled the leaves on the trees, and I - soaked to the bone - shivered.

_ Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, Beauchamp! Will you pull yourself together before you give yourself pneumonia?! _

Squeezing as much of the moisture as I possibly could, I rung out the hem of my skirt, Mrs. Graham’s shaw, and my curls.  With a deep breath, I propelled myself forward, pushing my body off the shed. I would not let the past hold me back - certainly Jamie wasn’t letting it hamper his choices.  

My feet squished uncomfortably in my shoes due to my water-logged socks, as I walked back to the house.  My teeth began to chatter from the chill that had settled into the valley following the storm, and drenched clothes only added to the bitter cold that was quickly seeping down to my bones.

By the time I reached the house and found the Reverend and Frank bent over some old manuscript in the Reverend’s study, my limbs shook so terribly that I scattered water droplets all around me… most likely ruining the polished wood floors and detailed panelling.  When I tried to clear my throat to gain their attention, a series of rough, rib-cracking coughs burst from my lungs.

_ So much for not getting sick… _

“Claire!” Frank cried as he rushed to meet me in the doorway.  “What on earth have you been doing? Fancied a swim in the middle of November?!”

His hands came to my shoulders, and he began vigorously rubbing my arms to bring some warmth back to my frigid body.  From somewhere behind us, I heard the Reverend say that he was going to fetch Mrs. Graham for some towels and hot tea.  Once we were alone, Frank’s hands came to cup my cheeks, forcing me to look him in the eye.

“Claire, what’s wrong?” he asked, his voice soft yet urgent.  “Please, tell me.”

I closed my eyes and swallowed hard, biting back the bile that fought its way to the back of my throat.  I felt a single tear roll down my cheek as I whispered my only request.

“Take me home… take me to Oxford.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack for this chapter includes:  
> Jessie Mueller - Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow: https://youtu.be/K4xJ1HGan0U  
> Lord Huron - The Night We Met: https://youtu.be/KtlgYxa6BMU  
> Mumford & Sons - After The Storm: https://youtu.be/YqUsAHTUPTU
> 
> Thanks for all the positive feedback!


	12. Chapter 11: Once Upon Another Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire tries to adapt to life in the 20th century.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's chapter include's a prompt from gotham-ruaidh's writing workshop: It seemed like a nice neighborhood to have bad habits in - Raymond Chandler
> 
> The soundtrack for this chapter is Sara Barielles' Once Upon Another Time: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mIXlPxblIpQ
> 
> Please note before reading, this is not a happy chapter and there are some NSFW bits. If you do not like the idea of Jamie or Claire having relations with other people, I highly suggest you skip this chapter.

**_One Week Later_ **

 

Once our adventures in Scotland had come to an end, Frank brought me back to England. The flat in London no longer seemed practical with his job at Oxford. We needed to make a new home again, far from Scotland and any ghosts that may have followed us. One sunny November afternoon, we found ourselves exploring Oxford University and the surrounding neighborhoods, wandering haphazardly through the hallowed halls and out onto the city streets. We lazily strolled hand-in-hand like newly weds, though we were far, far removed from that. Our arms swung forcefully in time, but our footfalls never quite matched, my heel hitting the macadam just as his lifted. Ever the gentlemen, he took the outside of the curb as he guided me around a corner to a residential drive.

 

_University Housing._

 

Words Frank had spoken to me months ago crashed loudly in my ears. _The university would provide lodging in a suitable neighborhood with other university families._ What should’ve felt like logical foundations for the next sequential step in our lives oddly felt like handcuffs. I should feel fortunate, thankful even, that the university provided for every one of our very needs. Instead, I felt like a parasite leaching from unearned resources. In spite of the overwhelming guilt gnawing at my belly, I continued the charade, ignoring the heavy feeling in my heart and dragging my feet as I walked towards the house.

 

The university provisions happened to include a townhouse - traditional in style, but with all the posh, modern conveniences we could ever need - on Divinity Street with the many other esteemed faculty members. Children played in manicured lawns and rode their bikes on the sidewalks, the last of their summer freckles fading like the late afternoon sun. I had half expected a cobblestone street, but instead was greeted by asphalt with bright yellow lines guiding us to the end of the street before suddenly halting at the T-shaped intersection. Respectable automobiles were neatly placed in their car parks.

 

Each house was built of solid, ruby brick with facades arranged in a classical style copied over and over again down the street. The street was neat, tidy, and polished like a row of soldiers. My stomach clenched at the memories - young men in scarlet coats who bound my hands and careless tossed me in a cart like a sack of potatoes… the fierce look of determination and madness on Black Jack’s face as he repeatedly kicked me in the stomach...

 

I shook my head to clear the cobwebs. _No Red Coats here_ , I reminded myself.

 

There was nary a scratch or imperfection in sight, as if the entire scene was plucked from a postcard. It seemed like a nice neighborhood. I was instantly reminded of a book I read long ago before the war by Raymond Chandler. What was the line?

 

_It seemed like a nice neighborhood to have bad habits in._

 

Bad habits, indeed.

 

And what secrets did those perfectly carved and painted wood doors hold? A son who’s marks were less than perfect… A daughter who nicked a lipstick from the local drug store… A husband who hid a secret love affair with late nights at the office... A wife who dreamed of foreign, romantic ventures she’d never see…

 

A chill ran down my spine. _Get a hold of yourself, Beauchamp!_ That part of my life was literally in the past, and I was never going back, despite what that wanted notice had said. It might have been fun for a time, a fanciful dalliance filled with danger and excitement, but it wasn’t practical. A flash in the pan, sudden passion like that could simply not be sustained. These were the mantras I repeated incessantly in my mind, constantly trying to convince myself this was the right choice. This was the life Jamie had wanted for me, had given back to me even.

 

_Then why did it feel so wrong?_

 

“Claire?” Frank’s voice called me back to the present, as he extended his hand towards me to guide me towards our new home.

 

The house wasn’t extravagant, but it wasn’t meager by any means. We entered into a foyer with rich, solid oak floors, the long boards extending back into the central corridor and towards the kitchen. Two rooms flanked the hallway and were filled to the brim with books, nicknacks, and furnishings I hardly recognized.

 

“I had a moving company bring our things from London,” Frank explained sheepishly. “I hope you don’t mind?”

 

I smiled, closed lipped, and shook my head.

 

_Had all these things really been mine?_

 

The antique dining set with matching china cabinet Uncle Lamb had saved for me that once belonged to my parents… The sofa we had argued over upholstery choices for hours and then lazily made love on one Sunday afternoon… All of these things and all of these memories that were once so valuable, so important to me were now completely unrecognizable and foreign.

 

Frank led me up the narrow staircase and gently guided me through the bedrooms, starting at the back with the master suite. I floated from room to room in a daze, fingering through the garments hanging in the closet. All were neatly pressed and made of synthetic fabrics that felt far too smooth and too thin to be practical. I paused as my fingers found a soft gray suit jacket with a matching skirt. The sharp pleats and severely angled stitching seemed far too flashy to be something I would ever own let alone wear.

 

A soft cough from behind me startled me, making me nearly jump clean out of my skin.

 

“I remember that day so clearly,” Frank whispered from the doorway. “You looked so lovely in that suit set. I knew from the moment I’d picked you up for lunch that I’d ask you to marry me.”

 

Dread filled my chest, turning my insides cold with regret. I was holding the suit I’d worn to meet Frank’s parents for lunch - and consequently was wearing it when we were married - and I didn’t even recognize it.

 

“Come,” Frank requested, placing his hand on the small of my back as he guided me from our bedroom. “Why don’t we see about dinner?”

 

As we reached the bottom of the stairs, an object in the dining room caught my eye, the setting sun reflecting off of it’s shiny curves. I had missed it on my initial walk-through - the glint of polished cream and royal blue porcelain in the china cabinet. Then it dawned on me - a memory of me standing in front of a store, admiring an antique vase and thinking of the home I’d build for it. It felt like a lifetime ago, and yet the haunting recollection nearly stopped my heart. Footsteps from the hallway jolted me back to the present.

 

“Claire!” Frank called, his voice growing louder as he approached. “Oh, good! You noticed!”

 

I tried to maintain my composure as I turned to face him.

 

“Noticed what?” I asked, my voice cracking from my obvious distress.

 

Frank joined me now in the dining room. His arm wrapped around my waist and pulled me closer to him. I’m sure he meant the gesture to be comforting, but even with the barrier of clothing between us, his touch made my skin crawl.

 

“The vase,” he clarified, his voice taking on a superior tone that always came out when Professor Randall was about to join us. “Six months ago, when you first… disappeared… we’d asked all around if anyone had seen you. The police… Reverend Wakefield… myself… but it was Mrs. Graham who’d asked the owner of the antique shop. He said the only time he ever saw you was standing at the window of his shop, admiring that vase.”

 

My stomach clenched, and bile rose to the back of my throat. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply to keep myself from vomiting all over the precious Persian rug beneath my feet.

 

Oblivious to my distress, Frank prattled on. “So I bought it - in hopes that one day, you would come back to me and we could build a home for it, together.”

 

His thin lips pressed a kiss to my cheek, and I could feel my skin grow cold and clammy. I wanted so desperately to tear myself from his embrace and run for the heather covered hills… but where would I go?

 

“And now we have,” he added, beaming next to me. I swallowed hard and tried to match his smile, but instantly, tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, the tell tale sign of my deception.

 

* * *

**_Another week has passed…_ **

 

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!” I screamed, half-dropping and half-throwing the frying pan back on the stove with a satisfying _clang_.

 

It didn’t take long to get settled into our new home, as Frank had all of our things moved and organized before we even moved in. A week after we had officially moved in, he suggested we host a dinner party for two of his fellow professors and their wives. I snorted at the memory of his suggestion, which was far closer to a military order than a subtle hint. With the scandal in our not-so-distant past, we need to try harder to rewrite our reputation with Frank’s colleagues and throughout Oxford. According to Frank, we couldn’t simply wait for an invitation. Instead, we must create the opportunities ourselves to prove we were just a normal married couple without any skeletons to hide in our closets. I wasn’t ignorant to the gawking stares or the loud whispers at the butcher shop, at the post office, or at the salon, but I wasn’t exactly sure how an extravagant dinner party would fix anything… especially with my skills in the kitchen.

 

Preparing for a disaster of epic proportions, I purchased the supplies for two completely different meals: a roast and a shepherd's pie. I figured I was better off with options in case one of the recipes failed, and if both happened to be a massive success, we would be prepared for dinner another night this week.

 

_I should have purchased the fixings for a third meal._

 

Two hours later and with nothing to show for my efforts save for two very ruined dinners, I cursed the frying pan, the stove, the broken egg-timer, and every cooking utensil in the small kitchen. I slumped in a kitchen chair, shoulders defeatedly hunched. The clock above the table ticked on, setting my nerves on edge. I only had another hour and a half to get dinner prepared and myself dressed, and as the seconds passed, I felt myself growing more anxious as to how I was actually going to pull a fancy dinner party out of my arse.

 

Leaning my elbows onto the kitchen table, I collapsed onto the wood surface, the old, unbalanced legs teetering beneath me. I wobbled with the table, and my hand came to meet my chin. My tooth pierced my tongue, sending shooting pains coursing through my jaw as my mouth filled with the bitter coppery tang of blood. I cursed colorfully as I jumped to my feet and launched myself at the sink for a glass of water.

 

Once my mouth was thoroughly rinsed, I leaned back against the counter, pressing the cool glass to my forehead.

 

_What a bloody disaster today was turning out to be…_

 

I lowered the glass to take another sip when the shiny, white box on the wall caught my eye. As inspiration struck me, my body instinctively took over, my legs carrying me to the other side of the room, my fingers grasping the receiver and dialing the operator.

 

_I might not have time to make another meal… but someone else might…_

 

As the operator came online with her sunny greeting, I sighed, relaying the answer to my salvation, “Yes, hello! Can you connect me to a restaurant? Preferably one that can have a large take-away order ready within the hour.”

* * *

_**An hour and fifteen minutes later...** _

Frank tried to hide his annoyance when he arrived home to find me guiltily stuffing take-away containers in the garbage pail. He entered the kitchen with a broad grin on his face, a bottle of wine tucked under one arm, and flowers in his free hand. As soon as he saw me elbow deep in garbage, his smile instantly fell, his high expectations suddenly dashed with disappointment.

 

I stood up straight, whipping my hands on my apron as I tried to make light of the situation.

 

“I never was much of a cook…” I joked, hoping self-deprecating humor would cure his disappointment and hide my nerves.

 

Frank attempted a smile, which looked much more like a painful grimace than any cheerful expression I’d ever seen. He pressed a chaste kiss to my cheek as he handed me the mixed bouquet.

 

“It’s no matter,” he mumbled. “I’m going to freshen up before the guests arrive. Do you think you can get these into water without completely mucking it up?”

 

I stiffened in his embrace as I tried to control the anger that now burned in my chest. I wished desperately to hurt him as well, cut him down with vicious words, but as I opened my mouth to speak, Frank swiftly turned on his heel and walked out of the kitchen.

 

I stormed into the dining room, muttering the words I longed to say to Frank under my breath.

 

_“Royal, pampered arsehole - let’s see him try to bake a potato let alone cook a perfect roast!”_ I seethed. _“He didn’t even thank me for trying, the ungrateful git!”_

 

Looking for a momentary distraction, I set myself to placing the flowers in water, creating a beautiful centerpiece for our dining table. I chose the blue vase from the china cabinet, hoping it would fix whatever crimes against modern domesticity I’d committed this evening.

 

As I arranged the blooms to rest attractively in the porcelain vessel, my mind registered the varieties of plant life in my hands. There were the typical flowers one expects to see in a bouquet - filler leaves and baby’s breath - but the featured flowers did not escape my notice. While the white roses should’ve reminded me of the bouquet Frank gave me for our first wedding anniversary, I couldn’t get Scotland or the band of Jacobite rebels I once knew out of my mind. Nestled close to the roses, tiny, blue forget-me-nots caught my eye - just like the ones I’d gone to Craigh Na Dunn to retrieve that fateful May afternoon.

 

Suddenly, the doorbell rang, hiding the ugly, wrenching sob that escaped my lips. I tightly gripped the back of the dining chair to keep myself from toppling over with grief. I took several deep breaths to steel my resolve, steady inhales and exhales washing over me and calming my raw nerves.

 

“Coming!” I shouted. I walked towards the door with my head held high as I flicked errant tears from the corners of my eyes.

* * *

_**Another hour has passed...** _

 

Dinner was - for the most part - a success.

 

Frank’s colleagues were kind and gracious, and their wives were complimentary of our home, praising me for my good taste even though I couldn’t take any of the credit. Our guests never once questioned the origins of the meal before them, only pausing between bites to offer their compliments to the chef.

 

“The roast is simply divine, Claire!” One of the wives commented, though her name escaped. “How did you manage to keep it from drying out?”

 

“And the greens!” Alice - now her name I remembered - gushed. “Mine always end up so soggy - I must raid your recipe book!”

 

I nodded as an embarrassed blush flooded my cheeks, mumbling my thanks between sips of wine. Frank might’ve caught me red handed hours before, but now, my gamble seemed to be paying off. I silently thanked whatever deity bestowed their blessings upon me this evening, though in the back of my mind I knew it was probably proper etiquette as the driving force behind my guests’ exuberance for the meal before them.

 

Besides those small moments, I spent most of the evening in uncomfortable silence. I only spoke when I was spoken to, and even then, I kept my answers polite but rather short. Spending the past six months of my life in 18th century Scotland gave me very little to offer in thoughtful conversation on current events or recent popular culture. Before that time, I’d spent years on the front lines in France, and even then our conversations weren’t necessarily suited for proper company. I felt like the proverbial fish out of water, floundering about like I should be swimming but unsure of how to exactly do so on dry land.

 

The entire evening reminded me of the meal I’d shared with a large group of Red Coat officers. The air felt heavy and thick, pregnant with unnecessary pomp and circumstance. The men prattled on about their work, which I had little desire to discuss the past in any form. The women quietly held their own conversations that I couldn’t quite add to - unsure of the newest fashions and not exactly concerned with the latest neighborhood gossip. Surrounded again by what should’ve been my peers, I felt oddly alone and every question asked in my direction set my nerves on fire once more, unsure of what to say and how to say it.

 

How I longed for the loud, boisterous meals in front of a fire, lounging in the heather while the clansmen around me told bawdy stories and told inappropriate jokes…

 

As the meal came to an end, I excused myself to clear the table before serving dessert - a lovely pie that Marjorie - _no Rose Mary_ \- had made from scratch. The table hummed with conversation, no one noticing that I had even left the room. I found the distraction welcome. My hands were no longer idle, and I was free from the binds of horrid small talk.

 

On my second trip into the dining room, a small hand clasped my wrist and I nearly dropped the stack of plates in surprise.

 

“Let us help you, dear,” Alice offered sweetly. T

 

he two women joined me in the kitchen, and we quickly developed an assembly line to clean the dishes. Alice would clear, I would wash, and Rose Mary would dry. Both women continued on their earlier conversations, practically talking through me as if I wasn’t standing between them.

 

“Alice, what was that story Johnny was telling you earlier?” Rose Mary asked in an excited whisper. “The one Tom had heard while he was on holiday?”

 

Tom was another colleague at the university. I had heard Frank mention the name once or twice. He also was in the history department, married, and several other shades of boring information Frank had told me before, but I couldn’t recall any of it nor did I honestly care.

 

“Yes!” Alice gasped. “His wife - Agnes - she’s from Scotland, so they went to visit her parents a few weeks ago. Her mother isn’t doing too well, poor dear. Anyway, while they were visiting there was some scandal! How odd for such a sleepy little town like Inverness!”

 

At the word Inverness, my heart began hammering behind my chest, fast and loud like a bhodran. The room began to sway before me, and I gripped the edge of the sink to keep from teetering over.

 

“Scandal? Do tell!” Rose Mary implored.

 

“Well,” Alice continued, the salacious gossip dripping from her tongue. “Apparently, this poor fellow had lost his wife a few months back. She had simply vanished without a word! Then wouldn’t you know it she came back almost six months later! She appeared as if she fell out of the clear blue sky, and bold as brass - she brought her lover with her!”

 

The plate I’d been washing slipped from my fingers and into the sudsy water with a loud thunk, showering all three of us with dirty dish water. Even though we’d run back to England, leaving Scotland in the rear view mirror, our ghosts had found a way to follow us here.

 

* * *

**That night I dreamt of Leoch.**

 

_We were in our chambers, lying on the floor in front of the fire. We had finally reconciled after endless days of fighting. Basking in the afterglow of my own climax, I felt so light, practically boneless without the heavy burden of anger weighing heavily on my chest. Pressing my lips to his skin, I kissed him, just beneath his jaw. His pulse beat steadily against my lips, anchoring me to this moment with the knowledge that he was alive and very much real in my arms._

 

_Beneath Jamie’s plaid, our limbs intertwined, and with our bodies pressed close, I felt him come alive, warm and hard against my belly. Jamie gently rolled me onto my back, and when he guided himself home, matching sighs escaped our lips as we became one flesh….I arched against him, needing craving to increase the friction between us to reach that peak I so desperately craved. Without a word, Jamie obliged and matched my pace, driving into me, steady and deep until I lost sight of where I ended and he began. As I began to feel that familiar pulling sensation, I closed my eyes, surrendering fully to the sensation as wave after wave crashed over me. The plaid must’ve slipped off of Jamie’s shoulders for now I felt a cold breeze across my skin, leaving me shivering in response. I opened my eyes to locate the plaid, but it wasn’t there...._

 

The fire, Leoch, Jamie - they were all _gone_. In their place was a hissing radiator, the new house in Oxford, and Frank, who was snoring softly next to me. He must’ve stolen the covers from me, which caused the sudden chill to wake me from my dreams. I gently tugged a spare corner of the blanket over my shoulders, nestled back down into the sheets, and waited for sleep to take me once more…

 

_...but it never came._

 

The mattress was too soft, and the sheets wreaked of chemicals, the smell of which turned my stomach sour. The radiator and the bathroom faucet were in competition to see which would drive my mad first - the ill-timed hissing or the incessant dripping. Every nerve within me felt raw, sensitive and reactive to anything that came in contact with my skin… but what troubled me the most was the throbbing, unsatisfied ache deep within my core.

 

It had been weeks since I felt a man’s touch. Beneath the Reverend’s roof, Jamie remained politely distant - especially with Frank so close - and ever since we had made our home in Oxford, Frank refused to touch me, except to guide me gently through an entrance or press a chaste kiss to my cheek at the appropriate moment. Other than those few fleeting moments that were far between, he never once ventured towards anything more intimate. Certainly, he had been quick to tell a story, to lie right to Jamie’s face that we had in fact rekindled our love affair. The memory of Frank’s deception made my blood boil, my seething anger bringing me fully back to awake consciousness.

 

I rolled onto my side, propping myself up on my elbow. I examined my husband’s sleeping form - pajama clad and fully relaxed, Frank slept on his back with his hands resting just above his navel. His face was sunken, his cheeks drawn down in a frown that reminded me more of an ancient scholar than the dashing intellect I’d met all those years ago. Raising my free hand, I stroked his cheek gently, feeling his warm skin beneath my fingers. It was still smooth, lightly dappled by a bit of stubble that was softer than I’d expected, anticipating the rough, coppery-gold of a few day’s growth rather than just a single day. Still deep in sleep, he turned toward my touch, his cheek pressing into my palm. I half expected him to smile, and my heart clenched when he didn’t.

 

_No, he wasn’t Jamie._

 

Jamie had made his choice, and I had made mine. He chose to leave, to run away in fear and in doubt… but Frank was still here. Frank was willing willing to fight for me, even if it meant he had to use lies and deception to get his way. He was still willing to try.

 

_Maybe I could try too..._

 

Pressing my hands into the mattress, I pushed myself up on to my knees and crawled across the bed, closing the distance between us. I hovered over him, my curls draping over us like curtains sheltering us as I leaned down to kiss him. He didn’t wake at first, but as I continued to press my lips to his, he came alive beneath me, his arms winding around me pulling me closer to him, his tongue teasing, seeking entrance to my mouth.

 

_“Claire,”_ Frank moaned, pulling away from me, “What are you…”

 

Pressing my fingertip to his mouth, I silenced him and then replaced my finger with my lips, first kissing him softly and then more urgently as his tongue slid against my bottom lip begging entrance. Our kisses muffled our whimpers, and my hips started to rock against him. When his hips rose to meet mine, I gasped, surprised to feel Frank’s body answering my call… but it wasn’t enough.

 

Blindly searching for the buttons of his shirt, I began to remove not only his pajamas but my own as well. One by one, I tossed the light garments aside, sending them floating to the ground behind us like the ghost that still hid in the recesses of my mind. Once the last of the barriers between us was discarded, my fingers roamed his body, relearning the shape of him … the lean muscles of his biceps… the flat planes of his belly… My hands drifted lower and lower until they wrapped around his length, and Frank hissed as I worked him, stroking him over and over again until he begged for mercy. It was only then I would grant either of us relief.

 

_“I miss my husband,”_ I sighed, my heavy lids slowly closed as I lowered myself down on to him.

 

With my eyes shut, everything else faded away. I know longer heard the annoying hiss of the radiator or drip off the faucet, as they were now muffled by our competing sighs and moans. A heat rose within me, which could’ve belonged to my rising desire or the heat of the fireplace behind us. Even Frank began to disappear. Behind my closed lids, he shifted and transformed. The shape of his body hardened, gaining hardened muscles from years of hard, manual labor. The hands grew wide, the smooth palms of an academic becoming calloused and worn. The lilt of his voice changed as well, the polished, trained accent of a British aristocrat giving way to the halting and low Ghaidhlig murmurings of a true Scot. Somewhere in the dark, I could’ve sworn I heard him call to me, whispering, _“Tha gaol agam ort, Sorcha.”_

 

_**Jamie.** _

 

His voice was my undoing. I shattered, breaking into a million pieces, the deep rooted tension finally leaving my body giving way to warm, fulfilling peace. As I came down from my high, I felt my limbs shaking from the sensation, quivering from the force of passion.

 

When the shaking didn’t stop, angry words joined in, shouting their concern and displeasure at the top of their lungs.

 

_**“CLAIRE!”**_ He bellowed… except it wasn’t Jamie’s voice that I’d heard. “Claire, look at me!”

 

My eyes snapped open instantly to find Frank’s face inches from mine, skin flushed and mouth hanging open in an ugly scowl. My arms ached where his fingers dug into the flesh, gripping me tight as he shook me, leaving angry, red crescent marks in their wake.

 

_Jamie wasn’t here._

 

When I didn’t answer, he shook me again, demanding me to speak. “What did you just say?” I

 

could barely hear him over the blood rushing in my ears, thrumming through me as I came crashing back to earth. Looking down, I mumbled an answer beneath my ragged breaths, praying he’d deem my unintelligible whispers satisfactory so we could continue until he finished and drifted off in a blissful, point-coital coma.

 

Roughly, he snatched my chin between his fingers and jerked my head upwards, forcing me to meet his gaze.

 

“Don’t lie to me, Claire,” he snarled. “We both know what you said…”

 

I gasped, gulping deep lungfuls of air, struggling to catch my breath. My chest felt tight as the sudden realization of what I’d done tightened around my ribs, squeezing the life out of me like a boa constrictor. Fat, wet tears rolled down my cheeks, marring my skin with ugly, black trails of ruined mascara. As the moisture hit Frank’s hand, he jerked away, hissing as if my guilt had burned his skin.

 

“Still?” Frank asked, taking me by the shoulders and shaking me again. “Even after he abandoned you, he’s _still_ the one you want?”

 

A visceral growl escaped my lips as we both shoved each other away, Frank pushing me off of him as I used the momentum to launch myself off the bed. Blindly, I stumbled in the darkness, stooping low to scoop up any article of clothing I could find to cover myself. In the pale moonlight, I caught sight of my robe draped over the foot of our bed. I snatched it up quickly and wrapped myself in its protective warmth.

 

“There’s no use hiding it,” Frank scoffed from the bed. “It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”

 

I refused to sink to his level with any type of reply, and instead, I stood stubbornly in the middle of our bedroom with my arms crossed against my chest. We remained in obstinate silence for quite some time, the quiet hatred between us only broken by the arrhythmic sounds of the radiator. Each snap made me twitch, nervously jumping at the erratic snap, and with every hiss, Frank sighed, his breath whistling through his teeth and grating my already raw nerves. After the eleventh hiss, I was ready to beat the angry, metal device with a baseball bat when Frank finally spoke.

 

“Do you think that you will forget him in time?” He asked plainly.

 

A gasp caught in my throat, strangling me and making me choke on my words. _Forget Jamie?_ How does one forget? During the war, I’d watch soldiers cope and rehabilitate from the loss of a limb, but I’d frequently heard of them complain of the phantom pain or awareness of the missing appendage as if it were still there. One does not simply forget an integral piece of one’s flesh, of one’s soul once it’s gone. There is always a dull ache, a ghostly reminder of what once was there.

 

_“That amount of time doesn’t exist,”_ I whispered as fresh tears coated my lashes.

 

My words stretched between us, the weight of my admission hanging heavily in the air. No matter how much time would pass, there would always be three people in this marriage bed.

 

Nodding, Frank rose, pulling on his pajama bottoms and then reaching for his discarded shirt. Once he was fully dressed, he shuffled his feet, searching for discarded slippers as he readied himself to leave the room.

 

“Don’t,” I muttered, my throat constricting with raw emotion making words difficult as I opened our bedroom door. “I’ll go. Goodnight, Frank.”

 

Pulling the door closed behind me, I closed the door on any opportunity of reconciliation.

 

Dressed in nothing but my robe, I silently moved through the house on tiptoe, down the stairs and across the hall until I found myself sitting in our dining room. The dining table was still clad in its ivory cloth and cluttered with leftover dishes from dessert we hadn’t bothered clearing away. Before me, the decanter of whisky twinkled, the moonlight twinkling off the severe angles of cut glass. A silver case and a few errant matches sat next to it, left behind by John who had one drink too many to remember his own name let alone his cigarette case and matches.

 

I sat in the empty chair before them, pouring myself a generous helping of whisky in a discarded glass with little care as to if it was clean. I pressed the latch on the silver case, and the lid snapped open to reveal five smokes, neatly rolled and packed in a straight line like little soldiers. Delicately, my fingertips traced the ridges of the miniature hills they’d formed in their line. Memories of the war flooded my mind, accompanied by the smell of rain, wet earth, blood, and tobacco. I’d only smoked once or twice back then, only after I’d witnessed an injury so terrible that Satan himself couldn’t have thought up a worse punishment for the human race to endure.

 

_And to think I’d experienced so much more in these past six months._

 

Wetting my lips with the tip of my tongue, I reached for the matches and deftly placed a cigarette between my teeth. Sulfur flashed as the match lit, and I held the flame to the rolled paper, inhaling just had Uncle Lamb had taught me all those years ago. Once my smoke was lit, I careless tossed the errant matchstick into a glass of shallow liquid, not really caring if I missed and I accidentally set the entire house aflame.

 

Breathing deeply, I allowed the smoke to wash over me like the hazy, thick incense of a funeral mass. With each exhale, smoke puffed passed my pursed lips, and I offered silent prayers for each of my lost hopes that they might one day see Paradise even though I would not. I mentally chastised myself for my imprudent indiscretions and mourned the childish fantasies I imagined for my life here in the future with Frank. I truly thought I could find some happiness here, even if it was as small and insignificant as the tiny forget-me-nots in the centerpiece before me.

 

_God, you are such a fool, Beauchamp!_

 

I brought my glass to my lips between drags, allowing the flavors of tobacco and whisky to mix into an intoxicating cocktail of sadness and regret. The blue vase stood proudly in the center of the table, taunting me with its domestic grandeur. The cheap flowers inside it had already begun to wilt, the stems bending at the weight of the heavy blooms just as the expectations of the modern woman had burdened me with their crushing weight. A single tear rolled down my cheek as the first white rose petal fell, and I imagined what my life might have been once upon another time.


	13. Chapter 12: Rewrite An Ending Or Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire struggles to find her place in the 1940s, but a mysterious friend guides her in the right direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before reading this chapter, you might want to reread Chapter 7: Precious Sin to refresh yourself with some of the details in that chapter.
> 
> This week’s chapter includes a prompt from Gotham’s Writing Workshop: Exulansis.
> 
> Also this chapter’s soundtrack is from the musical Waitress - She Used To Be Mine: https://youtu.be/A2-aUNmYNLM

_One week later..._

 

“Claire, we need to leave for the restaurant in twenty minutes!” Frank called to me from downstairs.

 

Sitting at my vanity, I sighed heavily as I stilled my movements, my fingers gripping the handle of my mascara wand tightly. With only my mascara left to apply, I was nearly ready to go. We were meeting Johnny and Alice for dinner followed by drinks with a few other colleagues and an evening of jazz… an event so disjointed it could disguise the most obvious discord.

 

“I’ll be ready in five!” I replied as I spied my blue dress, which hung lifeless and limp from a hanger on the doorknob of our closet. The last time I’d worn that shade of sapphire one night when we were at Leoch…

 

_Let it go, Beauchamp!_

 

Chills ran down my spine at the memory. I shook my head to clear my thoughts and turned to face the mirror once more and resumed applying my mascara.

 

We hadn’t fully discussed the events of last week or what they all meant in regards to our marriage. Dinner was just another distraction, another excuse to keep us both occupied. In the week following the incident, we’d hardly spent more than ten minutes alone with one another. Frank filled our social calendar to the brim, scheduling various engagements and accepting invitations from his colleagues so that we were entirely engrossed with company for a whole week. Even though such a regime left us both too tired at the end of each night to even consider a deep conversation, Frank went so far as to avoid me whenever possible, excusing himself to his study and only joining me in our bed once he believed I was asleep if at all.

 

_We were living a lie._

 

Gazing in the mirror, I hardly recognized the woman who stared back at me. She was a professor’s wife, perfectly polished and respectable. She was elegantly dressed with hair effortlessly styled and make-up expertly applied. She was the perfect hostess, doting on her guests with a warm smile and an extra slice of pie. She was a loving spouse who’d sacrificed her dreams in order to tend to hearth and home, lovingly preparing a home-cooked meal and counting down the minutes until her husband returned home after a long day of lectures.

 

_And where did Claire exist in all of this?_

 

Absent was the little girl with skinned knees who would dig latrines and light cigarettes for her uncle. Missing was the nurse who fearlessly staunch wounds on the front lines as blood stained her clothes and shells exploded overhead. Gone was the woman with riotous curls who stood toe to toe with Red Coat captains, Scottish lairds, and war chiefs alike. Where was she - the one who was neither meek or obedient?

 

_Certainly, Jamie would know…_

 

My throat constricted around his name as hot tears threaten to ruin my mascara. I could not - would not - think of him. I had made a promise. The morning after the incident over breakfast, I vowed never to speak his name ever again. My dramatic tears and declarations drenched our toast and cooled our piping hot tea as I pledged my loyalty to one husband while abandoning another. In response, Frank simply patted my hand, and when he rose to leave the table, he curtly told me that Rose Mary and George had invited us for dinner the following evening.

 

Even while remember the Claire I once knew, I resigned myself to the life I knew I deserved… the life I claimed I wanted when I chose Frank and let Jamie go. They say hindsight is 20/20, and now seeing clearly, I cursed myself for how blind, stubborn, and prideful I had been. I hurt the one person who truly saw me and I did it without one thought as to how he would feel.

 

For my selfishness, I would pay my price.

 

“Claire!” Frank called again, his tone growing more agitated by the second.

 

Sighing heavily, I bid farewell the life - and the love - that used to be mine.

 

“Coming, Frank!”

 

_Have to look pretty for the boss..._

 

* * *

 

Our companions abandoned us after dinner, claiming that Rose Mary wasn’t feeling all that well. I didn’t blame them. The meal had been an uncomfortable disaster from start to finish, and even I was looking for an excuse to bail as Frank and I entered the crowded bar. Thick with smoke and people, I could barely make out a path to walk through, but Frank had already spotted our party.

 

“Oh, darling, it’s the _Dean_. Do you mind if I…?”

 

I smiled weakly and shook my head _no_ , offering to grab drinks for both of us from the bar. Frank pressed a kiss to my cheek before ducking into the fray.

 

“I’ll only be a minute!” He called back to me.

 

The crowd enveloped him instantly, and I lost sight of Frank before I could even blink. In a sea of average height men with their hair all fashionably slicked back and sporting similar suits in varying neutral shades, how was I supposed to know him from Adam? I winced at the memory of his many years in special operations. Of course, Frank could easily blend with a crowd; it had been his job, for Christ’s sake. Even while surrounded in a cacophony of modern civilization, I could help but search for a flash of red hair and that familiar swath of plaid...

 

_No_ … I scolded myself. I balled my hands into fists, my fingernails sharply digging into my palms. I hoped the pain would wake me from this nightmare… but it didn’t.

 

Before I could catch myself, I was falling freely into the abyss. The bar around me faded away into the rolling hills of the highlands. Dizzy and disoriented, vibrant memories flooded my vision. Every sight and sound and touch was just past the tips of my fingers. A bodiless voice whispered in the shell of my ear, its breath warm on my neck.

 

_Jamie_.

 

It was Jamie’s hand I felt on mine, as he guided me through the great hall to our seats to hear Gwyllyn sing. It was Jamie’s bashful blush I saw, when I had found him sleeping on the floor outside my bedchamber - protecting me. It was Jamie’s voice echoing in my ears, proudly introducing me his wife to the Duke of Sandringham. Jamie had included me, treasured me, respected me… _loved_ …

 

_**“NO!”** _

 

Brash and loud, my own voice echoed harshly against my ears. The conversations around me crashed to a deafening halt, and I could plainly hear my breath crashing against my lungs in relentless waves. Loud and steady, my heart hammered like a tipper thrumming a strong rhythm against my chest that served as its tightly strung bodhrán. One by one, conversations resumed, and the voices rose to a familiar, buzzing hum that made me dizzy.

 

Desperate to escape their judgmental glances and slanderous whispers, I staggered to the far end of the bar. I nestled into the dark corner and prayed that the shadows would swallow me whole. I collapsed onto a wobbly stool, my body crumbling and retreating inward. Tingling pins and needles shot up my arms as the tips of my elbows found the bar top with a painful **bang**.

 

_Couldn’t I do anything right this evening?_

 

We‘d been late to the restaurant, I’d spilled soup all over my dress, and now I was making a spectacle of myself because I couldn’t keep my end of the bargain no matter how hard I tried.

 

_Don’t talk about him, don’t think about him, leave the him in the past._

 

I buried my face in my hands to keep the tears at bay...

 

_“Madonna,”_ a voice croaked. It was barely a whisper, and I strained to hear the thin, strained syllables over the din of the bar around me.

 

I lifted my head from my hands, whispering back into the void. _“What did you just say?”_

  
Suddenly, a man appeared behind the bar. His chest barely cleared the edge of it, which I imagined made serving patrons a bit of a challenge. His silvery hair crowned his head in thin wisps, reminiscent of clouds on a perfectly clear summer’s afternoon. However, what truly caught my attention was his face. There was something almost _amphibious_ about his features, his eyes sitting almost too far apart and his lips pursed into a thick, bulging line. I should’ve been wary of him, this odd stranger who seemed to have materialized out of thin air...but somehow I wasn’t. Something about this man felt oddly familiar. From somewhere deep within me, I felt a piece of me calling out to him, as if I already knew him.

 

A sputtering cough escaped his pursed lips, and the squat man spoke again, “Something to drink?”

 

_Christ, he even sounded like a frog._

 

“Ah, whisky,” I ordered, keeping my request as plain as possible to avoid stumbling through the simplest of sentences. “Neat, please.”

 

I watched as he poured the amber liquid. He paused to glance in my direction and then continued to pour a bit more whisky than what was socially acceptable to drink in public into my glass, then presented me the drink with a wink and a small smirk.

 

“This should settle your nerves,” he promised as I took a generous sip. “Honestly, you look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

 

I coughed violently, the whisky burning the back of my throat and nostrils. _Did he just...?_ I shook my head, clearing my sinuses and any thought ghosts, particularly those of the Scottish variety.

 

“No, _no!_ Nothing like that,” I insisted. “Just… abandoned by my husband is all. He saw some colleagues just now, so I’m leaving them to talk shop I suppose.”

 

Cautiously, I took another sip, drinking slowly as not to choke again. The liquid warmed me from the inside out, chasing out the chill set into my bones by memories that seemed to chase me at every turn.

 

Nodding, the bartender pursed his lips again, asking innocently, “And your husband, what does he do?”

 

Exhaling forcefully through my nose, I forced myself to smile.

 

“He’s a professor at Oxford. History - The Jacobite Rising, The ‘45, and all that.”

 

I waved my hand flippantly at the end of my recitation and took another healthy gulp from my glass. I could hear my new frog-like friend muttering to himself while he wiped down the counter with a clean towel. While his sentiments weren’t clear, I made out the words _“figures,” “Tearlach,”_ and _“understanding.”_ His brow creased as his train of thought pulled away from him, and he shook his head in frustration.

 

I eyed him cautiously over the rim of my glass.

“What was that?” I demanded, arching a suspicious brow.

 

He returned my stare and frowned slightly, his movements slowing until his hands were completely still.

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

I took another sip and decided to broach a more neutral subject.

 

“Your accent - it’s very interesting. Where are you from? Originally, I mean.”

 

“France, a small village north of Paris near Amiens, but I’ve traveled quite a bit, which is why my accent might seem... _unusual._ But that’s normally a question a bartender asks.” Wiping his hands on his apron, he finished with a playful wink.

 

“And you? You’re a traveler like me?”

 

Just before the Frog had asked his loaded question, I’d taken a generous sip of whisky, which uncomfortably lodged itself in my throat at the word traveler. I coughed loudly, spraying the once clean counter with whisky and spittle.

 

_Get a hold of yourself! He asked if you’d traveled the world - not through time! That’s not what he meant._

 

Clearing my throat, I provided the perfectly rehearsed answer that I had given for most of my adult life. “Yes, I was born in London, but my uncle - he raised me - was an archaeologist. Try as he might to lock me away at a proper finishing school, I simply couldn’t be parted from him, so I followed him around the world on his many expeditions.”

 

Listening thoughtfully to the tales of my adventures with Uncle Lamb, the Frog nodded, pressing hi pointer finger to his lips as if to keep a secret at bay. When I ended my story of my famous blunders in Morocco with self-deprecating laugh, he sighed.

 

“Do you find it... _frustrating?_ ” the bartender asked as he topped off my drink and prepared a few more for other patrons sitting at the other end of the bar.

 

“Do I find _what_ frustrating?” I asked.

 

He paused for a moment, placing his hands flat on the bar top as if to steady himself, and glancing towards the nearest patrons at the other end of the bar. A man was telling, from what I could hear, a terrible joke and completely ruining the punchline in the process. His date for the evening encouraged him, barking out an obscene laugh that was loud enough for the entire bar to hear. Entirely absorbed, they were completely ignorant to the Frog and me tucked in the corner. He chewed on his swollen bottom lip as he turned his attention to me. Black, beady eyes examined me intently as if I were a fly he intended to pin.

 

“I cannot speak of where I’ve been or what I’ve seen for most people do not believe me or they simply cannot fathom what I am - what **_we_ ** are, Madonna. It’s so frustrating that I normally try not to think on it, to pretend that it didn’t happen… but even hiding in stifling silence, it can be so very… frustrating.”

 

He exhaled slowly, and I nodded. Of course, I understood. During the war, doctors and nurses alike had been given a crash course in basic psychology - a “What To Expect When Your Patients Have Been Completely Traumatized” if you will. With massive casualties and, at times, endless waves of critical patients, we were pressed for time to treat our most dire patients.

 

Where were we supposed to pull the time to sit and listen - truly listen - to our patients who were suffering in ways that were hidden from plain sight? We were equipped to treat the body, but not armed to heal the mind. Day after day, I found soldiers hunkering down and forcing themselves to forget, to the extent that one American from Philadelphia that I’d treated had convinced himself the war hadn’t even happened.

 

_Exulansis_ \- they called it.

 

I knew the term, the causes, the symptoms… but none of that knowledge could prevent me from succumbing to my surroundings. After the whirlwind adventures of the past couple of months and the heartbreaking complications of the more recent weeks, I found myself simply coasting. It was easier this way - cresting each wave, letting a cruel riptide carry me where it may. I was stagnant, frozen, indecisive. I was drowning and I simply let it happen. I didn’t even bother to put up a fight. I gave up. I didn’t even know who Claire was anymore…

 

I focused on the liquid in the glass before me, swirling the liquid around it’s container like a miniature hurricane as the Frog made a clicking noise with his tongue, chastising my pause in the background of my thoughts.

 

“So we _are_ the same then, Madonna…”

 

My eyes flashed upward instantly as frustration burned low in my belly. What did he know? He had to know something. Any bartender could see the outpouring of agony and self loathing that pooled before me, dripping from my skin like a guilty sweat. And yet, his knowing look and the way he called me Madonna set my nerves on fire. I gathered from his familiar tone that he knew something… or at the very least knew me… and yet I didn’t know him.

 

_“Who are you?”_ I growled, feeling the words rumble low in my chest.

 

The Frog slowly blinked at me several times before he finally smirked and said, “Why, no one of consequence, to be sure.”

 

I felt the fire reignite. He was baiting me now...he knew.

 

“What are you implying?” I demanded. “What did you mean what **_we_ ** are?”

 

A stray hand brushed against my arm. The bar was quickly becoming crowded, too crowded. Our time was over.

 

“I should think it quite obvious. We both wore blue tonight, no?” The bartender stated, then dismissed me. “I think it’s time you rejoin your husband.”

 

_“Which one?”_ I hissed.

 

The Frog smiled knowingly. “You know which one, Madonna.”

 

And, with his answer, the fire within me reignited - a small little flame determined to spread into a wildfire.

 

I blinked hard as I stumbled back from the bar, struggling to keep the Frog in my sights. But as I pulled further away, his image faded… from the constricting movements of the crowd or my own emotions, I could not be sure. I brushed an errant tear from my cheek and smoothed my dress with my next steps clear in my mind: find Frank, leave, then tell him the truth.

 

Searching for him amid the crowd, I stood on tiptoe and craned my neck. I scanned the entire restaurant until something caught my eye - it was the back of the Dean’s balding head. I sprinted to their location, but as I approached, I found that it now blended and weaved into the other groups of men… all with blonde women balancing in their laps...

 

_Wait…_

 

_**Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!** _

 

I paused. I came across a group of Frank’s colleagues, and they were all the same. They were several copies of the same man wearing varying shades of brown and beige, sporting the same slicked-back hairstyle. All of their laps were empty except one…

 

I faltered, turning this way and that as I stumbled upon Frank and his colleagues… except they now formed a crowd of carbon copies of the same man. Each wore identically tailored suits of varying shades of brown and beige and sported indistinguishable, slicked-back hairstyles. All of their laps were empty except one… my husband.

 

“Frank?” I cried, his name catching in my throat as I approached him.

 

He didn’t bother to look at me, but instead was completely entranced by the sight before him. A scantily clad singer - drunk off her rocker - lounged at total ease in his lap, speaking only when requested and laughing at all of his jokes. As Frank continued on as if this hometown starlet were the only woman in the world, I tried to ignore the distinct sound of glass breaking as what was left of my heart shattered.

 

_**“FRANK!”**_ I wailed, my voice cracking in distress.

 

His colleagues joined my discord then, jostling his shoulders and trying to urge the blonde songbird off his lap… but the damage had done. I’d already turned on my heel with my sights set on the nearest exit. I blinked back tears that threatened to ruin my make-up for the millionth time that evening, refusing to let anyone see me cry in public. I had one goal - to go home - and I’d be damned if anyone would stop me.

 

“Claire!” Frank called after me, my name spinning me around out of pure instinct.

 

As I turned, my shoulder collided with something solid, something warm and living. Strong hands gripped my arms to steady me, preventing me from clumsily tripping over my own two feet. Our apologies were a flurry of jumbled syllables and exaggerated gestures.

 

I looked upward into the face of the victim of my clumsiness, gasping in shock. He was everything the pharmacy romance novels boasted - tall, dark, and mysterious - but I couldn’t shake the tiny ounce of dread that settled in the pit of my stomach as our hands touched, for something sinister lurked behind his eyes.

 

_“Pardonez moi, madame,”_ the stranger mumbled as his dark eyes narrowed and he reached for my hand.

 

_“Il n’y a pas de quoi,”_ I responded, accepting his hand in kind.

 

The stranger held my gaze, his eyes narrowing however impossibly further as his jaw clenched. He tilted his chin so slightly as he pressed his palm to mine, a fleeting glance in his eyes as he pulled away.

 

_“À bientôt, La Dame Blanche,”_ the Frenchman whispered with a final squeeze of his hand, slipping something into mine.

 

I stood rooted in place as he walked toward the stage and slowly disappeared behind the curtain. Simultaneously, Frank ran towards me, arms flailing as he proclaimed innocence, but still I felt heavy, the object in my hands tying me to the ground below.

 

I moved as if submerged in water, every movement heavy and calculated. I couldn’t hear Frank’s voice as he called to me, begged me to forgive his transgressions. The sound of the Frenchman’s voice filled my ears, it’s melodic yet ominous tones drowning out Frank’s pleas and the din of the bar around me.

 

_I will see you soon, White Lady… what in the bloody hell did that mean?_

 

This evening had quickly gone to pot, and with my latest revelations the only thing I managed to understand was the weight in my hand.

 

I brought my fist to my chest, and slowly, I turned my hand over as I released my fingers. In the center of my palm sat a silver band, delicately carved in a pattern that resembled Scottish thistle. The ring was simple and familiar. I raised my hand, bringing the simple piece of jewelry closer. I gasped as a hidden carving caught the light - a swirling, engraved phrase along the inside of the band.

 

My breath quickened then as I glanced at the ring finger on my right hand and found it empty. My collision with the French stranger must’ve knocked my ring loose. This was not a surprise for it had always been a loose fit and my hands were now clammy and cold. What was shocking, however, was that the French gentleman had retrieved it and had the decency to return it to me immediately. Pinching the silver between my thumb and pointer finger, I held the ring up to the lantern light of concierge station.

 

The markings were distressed, but not so worn that I did not recognize their meaning. The world around me spun and my heart clenched at what I knew was already true.

 

_Da mi basia mille…_

 

My hand came to clasp over my mouth as I sobbed, _**“Jamie…”**_


	14. Chapter 13: It All Fades Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire heads back to Inverness to confess her true feelings to Jamie only to find out it might be too late...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week’s chapter includes a prompt from Gotham’s Writing Workshop: Where there is love, there is no imposition.
> 
> Also this chapter’s soundtrack is from the musical The Bridges of Madison County - It All Fades Away - but the Sutton Foster version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nEtv3SXruwk
> 
> Thanks for the positive feedback & support!

_A week and a half later..._

 

_**“JESUS H. ROOSEVELT CHRIST!”**_ I bellowed, slamming my foot on the brake.

 

Tires screeched like wailing banshees, and angry curses were hurled from me to the other driver and back at me again. Our autos nearly missed one another by a hair’s breadth - most likely from my own rushed carelessness, but I didn’t care. I needed to get to Jamie, and I didn’t have a moment to lose.

 

In my haste, I’d engaged the brake without the clutch, inadvertently causing the vehicle to stall. Turning the key in the ignition, I revved the engine roaring back to life once more, and was on my way once more. The passing hills, trees, and livestock were a blur as I climbed the mountain, soaring higher and higher. I took corners faster than I should’ve, reckless and drunk with urgency. I felt the wheels nearly lift as I rounded the hairpin curves. In the rear view mirror, I caught sight of the sun as it began its descent, setting the heavens alight with vibrant burnt oranges and flush pinks. It must’ve been a beautiful sunset, the kind artists like Van Gogh or Monet dreamt of painting - but like the happenings of the past week, I let it pass me by.

 

_I needed to reach the top of that damn hill before it was too late._

 

There was nothing in my way. If my divorce wasn’t finalized by now, it would be in a matter of days. Though we lived in a modern society, divorce wasn’t easily attained. Even when both parties agreed to end their marriage, it could take months or even years to legally absolve a partnership.

 

_Thank God for Detective Grey._

 

The brilliant detective had one more trick up the sleeve of his signature khaki trench coat - a brother who was an equally talented lawyer with connections in all the right places. Within mere days, he had all of the paperwork prepared and the proper channels lined so that our divorce would be finalized as swiftly as we had carelessly wandered into our marriage that early spring afternoon. I dotted my i’s and crossed my t’s with the fanciest of fountain pens, the ink flowing smoothly never breaking through each and every signature confirming my decision with my own seal of approval.

 

_Goodbye, Frank._

 

I’d said it that afternoon in Mr. Grey’s office as we signed the last few papers, and I said it again now as the memory of his face at our parting revisited me again in the rear view mirror. He looked older now, as if years had passed between us instead of mere weeks. The lines of his face drawing downward as he frowned, his brown eyes lacking the warmth they once held whenever he looked at me. And yet, there were no tears, no dramatic eulogies to our love lost or last-ditch grand gestures to save our sinking ship. Frank shook my hand and simply wished me the best; I returned the gesture and wished him the same.

 

Deep down we both knew it wouldn’t last - couldn’t last. Without the war, without so many years apart, without a red headed Scottish ghost sharing our marriage bed - we might have grown together instead of slowly drifting apart. We might’ve stood a chance, but as Albert Einstein said, “Where there is love there is no imposition.”

 

With Frank, imposition seemed to appear at every turn, but for Jamie, I felt as if I could move mountains… or at least drive up this bloody hill before nightfall.

 

I hastily packed the clothes and items I required from the house in Oxford - I could ask Mrs. Graham to send for the rest later - before I hopped the train to Inverness. In my haste, I hadn’t bothered to call Reverend Wakefield. My skin was constantly pebbled in goose flesh with nervous excitement, my heart eager yet fearful for what awaited me in Scotland… but I could not - I would not - turn back. I was blind to my surroundings, mad with determination to reach Jamie before it was too late, but when the Reverend answered his own door late in the afternoon, his face fell as my heart shattered.

 

“I’m sae sorry, dear,” he mumbled apologetically, his accent thickening with his growing regret. “He’s gone tae Craigh na Dunn with Mrs. Graham.”

 

Legs shaking, I gripped the door frame to keep myself from falling. Tears quickly gathered at my lashes, and my breath stopped short. It couldn’t be… I simply couldn’t have been too late. This wasn’t over… _we_ were not ever over nor would we ever be.

 

The Reverend took my hands in his, gently holding them in his own as he offered one last hopeful prayer as only a man of the cloth could.

 

“Och, dinna fash just yet, sweet Claire,” he crooned. “The sun is low, but it hasna set… and the moon has yet to rise.”

 

Shaking my head, I stood up straighter as I regained the strength in my legs but found little understanding in the Reverend’s words.

 

“I’m sorry - but what do the sun and the moon have to do with me? Or with Jamie?” I asked, my words thick and sluggish as my mind tried to untangle his cryptic meaning.

 

Tipping his head backwards, he laughed. “It means ye have time, lass! Ye always have time!”

 

Before I could respond, the old man was shooing me off his stoop and ushering me towards his own auto, as the costly taxi that’d brought me to his home had long gone. He stuffed the key into my palm, closing my fingers around the cool metal as not to lose it in the gravel of his driveway.

 

“Godspeed, lass” The Reverend blessed me as he closed the driver’s side door for me once I was settled in my seat.

 

As he walked away, I quickly lowered the window, the muscles in my arm cramping from quickly and forcefully turning the crank over and over again.

 

“But, Reverend!” I shouted and then paused, as I waited for him to turn around before asking my question. “Why should he forgive me? Why should he take me as his wife again? I’ve done nothing but bring him suffering - most at my own hand!”

 

He nodded, casting his gaze down as his feet as he smiled ever so slightly.

 

“Remember the words of St. Paul, child -"

 

I rolled my eyes - _not bloody St. Paul again._

 

“Love is patient...”

 

The Reverend’s voice echoed in my ears, each syllable resonating in my heart as each beat recognized the truth that was spoken. My breath caught in my throat as I gripped the lever for the window even tighter. In the cool December air, I felt suddenly hot as a blush crept up my neck and stained my cheeks.

 

He shuffled his feet, scattering pebbles over the driveway.

 

“It’s kind too,” he added quietly, grinning like a wee school boy.

 

The principles the Reverend jokingly drove home hammered into my heart, begging me to continue to breathe, pumping oxygen through my veins. Turning the the key in the ignition, my right foot slammed the clutch into the floorboards as the engine squealed to life beneath my finger tips. Before I knew it, I was off chasing Jamie into the Scottish sunset.

 

As I drove, bending to the winding curves of the Scottish countryside, I tried to recall the conversation Jamie and I had in the Reverend’s study weeks ago. He told me how Mrs. Graham thought she and her Wiccan friends could send him - or really anyone - through The Stones, but it was all buried in a fog. He’d mention the sun, the stars, and the moon. He spoke of the ritual I’d once witnessed at Craigh na Dunn, but he described it with such detail as if he’d seen it himself… but he hadn’t. He’d mentioned twilight and the full moon rising overhead, which negated my experience at Beltane entirely, where there was sunlight and warmth and numerous possibilities.

 

My head swam with the endless scenarios that would bring Jamie to Craigh na Dunn once more, his intention to return home - without me - at the forefront. Each option gave way to a new version of torment, a new heartache splitting open raw and fresh with every new scenario of rejection.

 

I could not - _would not_ let it happen.

 

The Scottish landscape blurred around me in a myriad of greens, tans, and browns against the variant oranges, the fleshy pinks, and inky purples of the setting sky. All of the color blended together in the murky watercolor of my mind’s eye. Everything melded and mingled in the background in the the ever boring shades of grey of the modern day cinema… except with Jamie.

 

With Jamie, it was if I was deliberately placed in Oz itself in all its technicolor glory. Every sight, scent, and touch heightened and amplified by his presence. Each of my senses were alight and on fire whenever he was near, and without him, my world faded back into abysmal, boring gray. How could anyone find gray exciting once they’ve experienced the world in full technicolor from beyond the rainbow?

 

Everything else simply paled in comparison.

 

I finally crested the final hill, the Reverend’s vehicle joining a stray few as I pulled into park a distance from the sacred site. From the bottom of the hill, I could see that the circle was alive with activity - both from the women who circled the ancient pillars in worship and from the buzzing, which was already deafening. I didn’t dare want to approach the stones. The haunting memories of ear-splitting screams and the searing pain of my body being torn in two as I hurled through time twice were still too fresh and too raw to risk revisiting so soon…

 

And yet for Jamie, I would endure that painful journey a million times over to save him from that pain.

 

Carefully, I crept closer to the circle, ducking behind a stray boulder as I’d done only six months ago. I once thought their ritual ridiculous, but now as I viewed their homage to the moon, their differences became apparent and their religion increasingly intricate. When I observed the ceremonial rites for Beltane, the druids moved quickly, their limbs following a concentric pattern as they danced in a revolving circle around one central point. Now, they moved in waves, each motion causing a rippling movement from the fellow worshiper next to her, their limbs constantly extending and reaching towards the center and then outward and then towards the center stone. A woman would blink her eyes and a whole new wave would form, thundering to the center, collapsing upon itself with each cycle.

 

With each repetition, I caught a figure, slowly migrating toward the center. He crested the waves, allowing each motion, every chant to bring him closer and closer the middle of the circle. Slowly he walked as if he were gliding over water, his arms outstretched, reaching for the center stone. The ancient structure called to him, beckoned him closer as if he had no say whatsoever in the next few moments. It was if he was powerless to stop it… but I couldn’t let it happen.

 

I charged, brutal and relentless. My hands wrenched back solemn priestesses, bidding their homage to their priestess of the season. I barreled through the crowd, ignoring whom I knocked over or cast aside. I moved as quickly as I could but my movements felt as heavy and slow, as if I was moving through deep mud. Before I could register their presence, slender arms wrapped around my middle and pulled me away from the center stone as Jamie lifted his arms high.

 

Jamie pressed his hand to the stone, and the world around me ceased to exist as I cried in pure, unending agony.

 

_**“Jamie, no!”** _


	15. Chapter 14: I Wouldn't Need A Second Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire and Jamie await their fate at Craigh na Dun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This soundtrack for this chapter is Sara Bareilles' Bright Light's & Cityscapes: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AJycDeZqtdc
> 
> Thanks again for the comments & positive feedback!

My desperate sobs echoed around the circle, my anguish crashing and reverberating off the ancient stones clamoring like archaic, off-key church bells. The varying pitches of my hopeless pleas circled round and round creating a cacophonous cannon, trapped in an endless cycle never to reach the ears of any god with which I intended to bargain. Slowly, my cries faded like the setting sun, dissipating into solemn silence as the inky dark of night crept on, quieting the raucousness of the day with its mystery.

 

The fierce grip of the arms that held me back slowly loosened like thick steel in a forge, slowly melting under the force of unbearable heat. My captor gently guided me back to the earth, her hands gently supporting my waist until my feet found the solid ground and my legs steadied themselves. Once I regained my footing, I slowly crept forward through the sea of Wiccans.

 

The women had frozen in place, holding their postures as stiff as the stones they’d come to worship. They scarcely breathed for breaking the sacred magic of their ritualistic offerings and prayers. They reminded me of statues I’d seen countless times model in the Grecian style with billowing white fabric draped and gathered around their lithe bodies, creating an elegant and mysterious fantasy.

 

With gentle step, I wandered through the maze these women created with their choreographed placement. In an instant, I was back on my first trip to the Louvre with Uncle Lamb as a young girl, weaving in and out of the endless rows of frozen goddesses in various displays and poses. The hall was as quiet as a church at meditation following communion, completely solemn and still save for the steady, even breathing of the congregation.

 

No one moved, and yet I still pressed on, my stride never faltering as I approached the altar of the center stone. My steps slowed until I gradually stopped, halting just before reaching the middle of the circle as if an invisible line divided the present and whatever could possibly be.

 

I didn’t dare cross that line… _not yet_.

 

My throat ached, the muscles scratchy, raw, and abused from screeching like a banshee into the frigid night air. The last echoes of my cries finally gave out and were carried away with an evening breeze that settled over head, rustling the tree branches just beyond the circle. I didn’t move a single muscle or dare to speak another word - not that I could if I’d wanted to - as my mouth had grown dry in anticipation of the next moment. I simply held my breath and waited. I’d ruined all my prospects of a future in the present on a wish, raced up a mountain on a hope, and unleashed my only desire with the last prayer held in my heart. All I had left to do was wait, and I would wait all night or forever for the answer I needed.

 

As night fully blanketed the sky and the city lights of Inverness glowed from below, an owl hooted in the distance, announcing that the hour was growing late. She called once, then twice before flying off into the night. The ruffle of her feathers gave way to unending, heartbreaking silence until his voice broke through the silence, calling my heart home to him.

 

**_“Claire?”_ **

 

I covered my mouth to stifle the sob that threatened to escape my lips, refusing to ruin the perfection that was Jamie’s lips uttering my name once more. My heart broke at the sound of his breathy accent elongating the vowels in my name. Something deep within me stirred at the way the final syllables rolled in his mouth, starting at the tip of his tongue and burrowing deep in his throat. Each letter flowing from his tongue filled me from the bottom on up, and I thought I might burst from overflowing emotion hearing him say my name once more.

 

Jamie turned slowly to face me, the plaid draped across his shoulder fluttering with the wind. His cheeks were red - whether from the impending winter chill or from the exertion and emotion to bring himself back to the stones I could not be sure. His eyes shone blue, always deep and clear, but now against the darkening night, I thought they might be stars in the heavens. Another stray breeze ruffled through the branches of the trees beyond, sending his russet curls twirling about his cheeks.

 

_He was breathtakingly perfect to me._

 

My breath caught in my throat. How had i ever thought that anyone else could have even come close in comparison? There was only one for me - one Jamie, no more no less.

 

“Hello, Jamie,” I said lamely as I turned my head, suddenly very aware of our present situation and embarrassed as a fierce blush staining my cheeks and stray curls crossing my vision on the wings of the wind. With just one look from him, my belly tightly clenched and my legs turned to jelly, utterly useless and rendering me completely unsteady on my feet.

 

Our simple words broke the spell of silence, and the solemn druids slowly drifted from their stationary position. We walked towards one another, shy and tentative, our eyes meeting for only a moment before turning away. At an arm’s length between us, we suddenly paused, neither one of us not wanting to come within a distance where we could easily touch. We shuffled our feet, crossed our arms, and stared off in opposite directions, unwilling to begin any uncomfortable conversation.

 

_“What are ye -”_

 

_“I thought…”_

 

Our simultaneous statements collided like runaway trains, blindly fueled by emotion and precious deadlines, unwilling to hear but dying to confess their secrets. We blushed and laughed uncomfortably as our words collided. Raising my right hand, I beckoned Jamie to continue, but he raised his hand in kind, shaking his head and in turn offering me to speak.

 

I sighed, a rattling, shaking breath escaping my lips before I laid my truth, bare and raw before his feet.

 

_“I thought I’d lost you.”_

 

As my words reached his ears, he recoiled, doubling over as if my sentiment grew fists and punched him right in the gut. I knew how rich it sounded - my words full of sorrow and regret when my actions the past few weeks had been indecisive at best - but I had to at least try to get him to see what he meant to me, what our relationship meant to me.

 

Recovering from the verbal blow, Jamie straightened as he rolled his eyes, as he tried to appear unaffected by my words or my presence at Craigh na Dun. He snorted softly as his placed his hands on his hips, “Why would that matter now? Yer still married, are ye not?”

 

Anger willed my blood to pump through my veins once more. My pride willed my expression to remain calm and collected, and yet I felt my face grown hot as I tilted my chin high. Yes, I’d made mistakes, but I would not be ashamed of them.

 

“I’m _divorced_ ,” I said flatly, hoping my face reflected the neutrality of my spoken words.

 

The crowd around us began to dissipate, unenthused with their lack of miracle or magical happenstance that had been promised. One by one, the wiccans left the hill until we were left alone with the stones and our unspoken confessions. We stood before one another breathing heavily, neither one of us willing to speak another word until the last of the potential eavesdroppers had found their way home.

 

When Jamie finally spoke, his words echoed across the hilltop, his question reverberating against the stone just as my anguished cries had.

 

“Why?” He demanded. “Why did ye come back?”

 

My entire drive to Craigh na Dun I’d practiced my speech. I’d memorized my words, my sentiment clear and my facts outlined. I’d prepared myself for the most epic battle, but now facing Jamie, all the words I know in any language failed me, not one of them significant enough to offer penance for the damage I’d done. I could only simply shrug in response...

 

And when my words failed me, Jamie only requested more.

 

“I need ye to say it, Claire…” he urged.

 

A spark lit, igniting passion within me once more. Why should I admit my heart’s own desire when he hadn’t given me a reason until now? We both hid behind skewed actions, less than innocent flirtations, and false pretenses - both of us afraid of what laid beyond the precise as we both dared the other to jump.

 

“Do you really need to ask?” I questioned boldly as I rocked on my heels and eyed him through hooded lashes.

 

His large hands grasped my shoulders, shaking me fiercely and slighting harder than he truly meant to. His voice was low, his accent harsh as the syllables caught in his throat. “Do ye really mean to chose the lesser man?”

 

_The lesser man._

 

The meaning of his words crept into my veins like the frost of winter and broke my heart once more. He never backed away from a challenge. He always defended those who couldn’t defend themselves, going so far as to offer his body and his freedom in exchange for his sister’s honor. He was humble and kind and true…. I could not imagine in any way that he could be less than Frank.

 

Jamie filled every idle thought I had throughout the day as I wondered what he thought of a certain topic or if he’d find the same jokes that I did amusing. He was a phantom touch, ghostly whispers of his fingertips pulling at my curls, begging me to wear my hair down as I pinned it back. He was every pulse of my heartbeat and the very breath in my lungs, all willing me to walk, to breathe, to live. Without him, I simply floated, carelessly adrift and carried by the current of life… and with him, I felt as if anything were possible. Jamie was all encompassing as far as I was concerned.

 

Tentatively, I reached for him, my fingers barely brushing the stubble on his cheek.

 

“I choose the man - the only one - who is right for me,” I assured. “The person who is my match in every way.”

 

Closing his eyes, Jamie leaned in, allowing his cheek to rest in my palm for just a moment before jerking awake and pushing me away. He cried out frustratedly as he raked his hands through his hair, which had grown long and now curled about his neck.

 

I felt the beginnings of heartbreak and wrapped my arms across my ribs, hoping to physically hold myself together as tears threatened to spill down my cheeks. A little voice at the back of my mind urged me to run, to protect myself from another inevitable rejection… and yet my heart quietly beckoned me to stay, to face the fight ahead of me as Jamie’s frustrated cries rung out through the night.

 

“He was supposed to keep ye safe!” He bellowed, tilting his chin towards the sky. “He could give ye everything that I could not!”

 

I stood in place as Jamie paced the stones, winding through the monoliths and randomly placing his hand on various plinths. He continued this pattern of aimless wandering until he reached the center stone once more, placing his hand in the middle of the monument.

 

My breath caught in my throat as another ragged, desperate scream threatened to burst from my lungs. Adrenaline raced through my veins fueled by terror, causing my heart beat fast, hammering hard against my ribs. My arms flew out on their own accord, my hands reaching to pull Jamie back from the stone, ready to hold him tightly in my arms and to never let him go again. My vision blurred from a sudden onslaught of tears, and I could’ve sworn I saw his figure fade slightly in the distance… but when I blinked them away, clearing my eyes of any emotion, Jamie was still there, solid and strong and real as the day I’d met him.

 

_He wasn’t going anywhere._

 

As the realization of his current predicament fell upon him, Jamie paused for just a moment, eyes closed in silent prayer that something, anything, would happen… and when he remained at the top of Craigh na Dun in 1945, he barked out a laugh at the sick joke that was his apparent fate.

 

“I dinna belong here!” He screamed. “And we both saw that the stones didna work for me this time! I canna go back - not that I could provide for ye back in my time. I told ye to go to him hoping you’d be safe and cared for, and here ye stand before me, begging to stand by my side! And I have nothing, Claire! No land, no title, no money! Go back to Frank - where yer safe and warm.”

 

Jamie stood just inches before the center stone, his back barely brushing the granite as he gulped plentiful inhales of oxygen. His eyes were wild, shining bright with all of the emotions he desperately attempted to contain within his heart. Carefully, I stepped towards him, and as I approached he stepped backwards closer towards the stones. I tempted to reach for him, and his hands guided mine back to rest at my sides.

 

“Ye best turn back, lass, for I have nothing to offer you,” Jamie whispered as he brushed a stray curl from my face. “My hands are empty!”

 

As his hand left my cheek, I caught it deftly in my own, sliding my palm against his own until our fingers intertwined. Our hands mingled and danced with one another, touching and regaining familiarity once more. Twin sighs escaped our lips as his hand engulfed my own, surrendering to the warmth and comfort we found in each other’s touch. For what felt like the first time in the weeks that passed, we were both home.

 

“They’re not empty now...” I murmured, leaning further into Jamie’s embrace. His free arm wrapped around my waist and gently pulled me to him, our foreheads bent to barely touching. Slowly, our eyelids slid gently closed as our breathing regained its normal, matching pattern. I whispered a promise to him then, soft and low only for his ears to hear, our lips barely touching so he could feel within his own heart the depths that I meant it in mine.

 

“Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; they people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest, will I die, and there I will be buried…” I vowed, our tears blessing our cheeks and mingling where our skin met.

 

Jamie’s fingers found my chin, gently tilting my face upward to meet his gaze as he pressed his lips to mine. His kiss was simple and pure, a shy meeting of closed, tentative lips, but as I melted into him, we both couldn’t help reach for more. Lips and tongues battled as we fought to breathe the same air until we pulled away, our hearts hammering away and chests heaving arduously.

 

“I want to be wherever you are, James Fraser,” I said sounding rather breathlessly. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”


	16. Chapter 15: Beyond A Storybook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie and Claire face some difficult decisions together, now as a newly reunited couple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The soundtrack for this chapter includes Ingrid Michaelson's Turn Stone (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aFfGbEMnIJQ) and Hozier's Shrike (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EWLqdAJbu0A).
> 
> This chapter is NSFW.
> 
> Thanks again for the comments & positive feedback!

_3 Days Later - Mrs. Graham’s POV_

 

At the dawn of the solstice, we reconvened at the base of Craigh Na Dun for our celebrations. I felt like I’d hardly caught my breath since last I’d paid homage to the ancestors, but it wasn’t every solstice followed a full moon so closely… or two novices begged to participate in the ritual so they might travel back in time.

 

Claire and her Jamie had stood before me hand in hand in the kitchen of the manse, just one day after his failed attempt to travel through the stones. A nervous energy surrounded them both as they shuffled their feet and exchanged side-long glances. Jamie encouraged her, nodding his head and gently nudging her shoulder, gently coaxing her to speak their wishes to me.

 

_“The solstice is in two days…” Claire stated, burying her request in a simple observation. “If it wouldn’t be a great inconvenience -”_

 

_I shook my head and raised my hand to silence her. “No, dear, we canna risk it. It did not work last time. Who’s to say it’ll work this time - or even worse, if there’s some sort of mishap. I will not risk ye both.”_

 

_She nodded as my response washed over her with her eyes cast downward, refusing to meet my gaze. Jamie wrapped his arm around her then, to reassure her or to steady her resolve I wasn’t sure… until she spoke again._

 

_“Please, Mrs. Graham,” Claire asked again, begging this time with tears in her eyes as her voice grew thin and cracking with need. “We have to try.”_

 

_Jamie stepped in then, arguing their case when his wife grew weary as a true partner should do._

 

_“I dinna belong here!” The Scot persisted. “I need to go back… I ken what’s to come -The Rising and the Bonnie Prince...”_

 

_His voice trailed off then as it dawned on me how much of the past two hundred years Claire had shared with him in the past day. She’d told him of the destruction and the hardship that faced his people in the years to come, and it seemed as if they’d made the decision. They wanted to fight… or at least the chance to protect whatever and whomever they could._

 

_“I have a sister,” he said quietly. “It is my duty to see her safe, if I can help it.”_

 

_Jamie stood a little straighter as he spoke, his muscles drawing tight and strong like a true warrior ready to fight. As he rose to his full height, Claire too pulled herself taught. Both of their eyes narrowed like fierce hawks seeking out their prey. They were a fearsome sight to behold - a true partnership in every sense of the word - and who was I to deny their wishes._

 

_“Ye might not make it - one of ye, if no’ both...” I said, reminding them that their fate was not sealed as they imagined with one simple choice, though I hoped I’d might sway their decision with this last ditch effort._

 

_“Where he goes, I go,” Claire answered firmly as she took his hand in hers. It would take a higher power to part them, and it certainly would not be me._

 

With that, the Frasers signed their fate away to the mercy of the Stones. Thankfully, The Reverend had stored their clothes from when they’d first arrived - the garments that mysteriously and perfectly replicated as those worn by his ancestors. He’d also acquired several antique coins - how? I dared not ask - to aid the couple on their journey, should they successfully pass through the Stones to their desired destination. One could only hope for their safety.

 

The morning of the solstice arrived, and I awoke in pure darkness - unusually alert and awake for the early hour. Every hair on my body stood on end as if some sort of miracle were about to take place. My hands shook in anticipation as I readied myself and then again as I checked in with both Claire and Jamie before we packed ourselves into the Reverend’s auto to venture off to Craigh na Dun together.

 

The following hours flew by in a blur. First we were in the car together, climbing the Scottish hills in dark silence, none of us willing to speak out of fear it would bring some ill luck upon us all. Then, we were at the base of the hill, where I assembled with my sisters in our designated queues before the ritual. I’d lost sight of Jamie and Claire when they climbed the final crest and settled on their placement just before the center stone. In the last moments before dawn, I breathed deeply as I sent a silent prayer to whichever god would hear it - _please let this work._

 

The first few rays of the morning sun crept over the horizon, and we began our ritual. I lost myself in its solemn strangeness and yet comforting familiarity. It was intoxicating - the hum of the stones and we danced and weaved ourselves in the formations that were as natural to us as breathing after all these years. We spun endlessly in concentric circles until we did not know left from right, up from down.. and then all at once we found ourselves at the end of our ritual, entirely frozen and still, arms raised in solemn praise towards the center stone, as Jamie and Claire marched towards the altar arms outstretched, offering up themselves as they reached towards the altar.

 

The sun rose fully, and a wind did rise, ruffling through my veil and lifting it from my head. I turned for just a moment to capture the bit of fabric and secure it to my head once more, but when I looked back, they were gone.

____________________________________

_Claire’s POV_

 

When I awoke some time later, all was quiet.

 

The chants of the Druids along with the hustle and bustle of 1945 had all faded away into a yet-to-be imagined dream of the future. In their place, a soft breeze whistled through the trees, gently rustling the leaves in the canopies overhead. Winter had taken hold of the Highlands, the proof of its icy grip evident by the snowflakes melting at my fingertips, and yet, I swore I heard a bird chirping in the distance, the simplest, sweetest melody flooding my ears as I returned to consciousness.

 

I shivered as the hard ground beneath me had grown cold from winter’s chill. While Jamie’s plaid normally kept me plenty warm, they were no match for snow-covered frozen earth. As I fully woke, I shook harder from the cold, my muscles contracting and spasming of their own accord, forcing me to inch across the ground until I collided suddenly with _something_.

 

It was a solid form, yet not entirely unyielding, and it was warm, too, as if fueled from within by its own internal furnace. Unconsciously, I wriggled closer to this foreign body, desperate to thaw my own frozen limbs, and I sighed, content as warmth flooded my body and defrosted my fingers and toes. A limb, an arm, snaked around my waist, pulling me closer towards the heat I so longed for… and yet I didn’t know to whom or to what the arm belonged. An angry scream furled in my chest, and my muscles tensed, ready to fight off any worthy opponent when a comforting whisper broke through my delirious, half-frozen haze.

 

_“Sassenach?”_ Jamie murmured, his breath hot against the curve of my neck. “Sassenach, _are_ we…? _Did we…?”_

 

In an instant, he was pulling me closer and moving me away all at once. He maneuvered and rolled until I was flat on my back in the heather and he was above me, nestled rather intimately - nose to nose, hip to hip, and legs intertwine. When I opened my eyes, all I could see above me was Jamie. He met my gaze, and as he smiled, I grinned broadly, so perfectly happy to be in his arms wherever and whenever here happened to be. My heart fluttered against my ribs, light and hollow compared to the weight it had bore until quite recently. As he dipped his head lower to brush his lips against mine, I thought I would burst with joy.

 

“Ye didna answer me,” he whispered against my mouth before claiming my lips again, his tongue begging entrance to my mouth before we nearly lost ourselves amidst the circle of mythical stones.

 

Pulling away, I pressed a finger to his lips, admonishing his behavior with a flirtatious _tsk_ of my tongue behind my own lips.

 

“Listen,” I begged urgently as a new wind billowed through the branches above and the resident songbird continued crooning.

 

As the feathery light whistles reached Jamie’s ears, he pressed himself upwards, hovering in a half push-up position as craned his neck, straining to hear the bird’s song. His expression changed, his brow furrowing in what I thought might be confusion or disbelief.

 

I reached out, brushing a stray curl from his eyes. My fingers traced a gentle path down his temple to his jaw, finally allowing my palm to rest against his cheek.

 

“What is it, love?” I asked softly as not to break his train of thought.

 

Without looking at me, he chuckled a little to himself, and turning his gaze to the sky, he muttered a quick phrase under his breath, something that sounded to me like a short prayer.

 

_Tha mi gad chluinntinn, a mhathair._

 

When he was finished, Jamie turned his face back to me, and his eyes now shown with unshed tears. He pursed his lips, his mouth flattening into a thin line as if to trap whatever secret he was withholding. Shaking his head no, he slowly exhaled before answering me.

 

“Tis nothin, _mo ghraidh_ ,” he explained as he pressed a kiss to my temple. “Just enjoying the plover’s song - the bird we just heard, ye ken.”

 

Pressing into his palms, Jamie quickly lifted himself upward and carefully detangled himself from my embrace as not to trip over my legs as he stood. Once he was steady on his feet, he turned to me with his hand outstretched.

 

“Come then,” he urged as he helped me stand. “Let’s somewhere to bide before nightfall.”

_________________________

 

Night had arrived long before we found any lodgings. The tiny town of Inverness was either full of inhospitable townsfolk or just plain full to the brim as we struggled to find any available room to pass the night - let alone the next several days before journeying on to Lallybroch. It was Jamie’s idea of a “real honeymoon” - a concept explained to him by Mrs. Graham back in 1945 - and he was determined to give this to me, to give this chance to us. It was by Jamie’s dogged determination and endless supply of charm that we finally found a place to stay… in a barn on a property at the far edge of town.

 

“Tis the season,” I mumbled to myself as I arranged the few blankets the farmer was able to spare in the hayloft, the humorous coincidence not lost on me. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but we’d be warm and safe for the night.

 

“What do ye mean by that, Sassenach?” Jamie’s voice called out, startling me and causing me to drop the blanket I’d been holding.

 

I turned just in time to catch him gingerly place a basket down on the loft floor before hoisting his left leg, then his right and climbing into the loft fully. While Jamie was always quite tall, the low ceiling only made him seem larger as his curls nearly brushed the beams above us. His eyes glowed in the low light, and when the right side of his mouth tipped up in a smirk, heat pooled deep in my belly, my legs turning instantly into jelly. I felt my face grow hot, a blush quickly staining my cheeks as an obvious sign to my desire and my embarrassment.

 

Even though we’d reunited just three days before, we still hadn’t had a complete reunion. I had told him my divorce was pending - if not already final - but nonetheless, Jamie stayed in separate rooms while we were under the Reverend’s roof. Though out of respect to the Reverend or to the final days of my first marriage, I wasn’t quite sure. This would be the first night we’d spent together in over a month, and all of the events of the past several weeks, all my transgressions and missteps, weighed heavily on me now. Even if Jamie had cast me aside in some misguided attempt to maintain his honor, I was the only one responsible for my own actions. My mistakes were chains that bound my arms tight to my sides even as he stepped towards me now, with open arms and a kind smile.

 

_How could I face him now, purely open and honest as his true wife? I’d be worse than Judas..._

 

“I… ah… that is, the Olivers put together a wee supper for us,” Jamie coughed breaking the silence. “Maybe ye can tell me over a meal and some whisky?”

 

I smiled weakly. We were back at the beginning - no better than criminals or stowaways sharing a spare crust of bread and a nip of whisky, tucked safe away on the hospitality of trusting strangers. Even if he hadn’t planned it, the obvious parallels to our wedding night weren’t lost on me, and his sentiment warmed me to my core.

 

“Alright,” I agreed, quickly scooping up the basket and carrying it to our makeshift cot. “You’re a far better Catholic than I, so I’m sure you know the story of the Nativity...”

 

Jamie’s face lit up as the joke dawned on him, first his eyes sparkling in merriment followed by beginnings of a smile with his lips pursed in an ever playful smirk.

 

“Aye, I ken, but there are no virgins here, Sassenach.”

 

We simultaneously erupted into a fit of giggles, our raucous laughter echoing throughout the barn and awaking the inhabitants below. As baying and mooing slowly intermingled with our own rowdy howls, Jamie pressed a finger to my lips, silently signaling that we should take our enthusiasm down a notch. Our laughter gave way to a stillness, a place where an eternity passed with only the heat of his skin against my mouth. Our eyes met, and I swore I’d melt on the spot.

 

My heart pounded hard against my ribs, my pulse thundering in my ears as I struggled to rein in the numerous fantasies my wild imagination spun upon the sensation of Jamie’s finger against my lips. I closed my eyes for only a moment, allowing for the rushing waves of lustful dreams to carry me away. When I finally opened them, Jamie was looming over me, knowingly smirking at me.

 

“We have plenty of time for that,” he purred, and I answered him with a laugh as he gestured to the abandoned basket in the corner. “Come, let’s eat.”

 

Jamie sat first and then gently guided me to sit beside him, helping me to navigate the one uneven floorboard that threatened to upend both of us. Once I was comfortably seated beside him, he snagged his plaid - the Fraser tartan - from the pile of blankets and wrapped it about our shoulders for until we were nestled comfortably together in our own little nest. Warmth flooded my body, thawing me down to my bones and allowing me to ease into the comfort and safety of my husband’s embrace. As I mentally began to relax for the first time in months, so did the rest of my body, and my stomach let loose an earth shattering grumble.

 

My cheeks flushed hot from embarrassment, but Jamie only chuckled as he offered me a bit of bread with a healthy chunk of cheese on top.

 

_“Bon appetit, mon amour,”_ He murmured as he pressed the morsel to my lips, and I ate from his hand the most delicious bite I’d ever eaten.

 

I sighed against his fingers as they brushed my lips,

 

“Hmmm, I wasn’t aware you spoke French fluently, _monsieur_.”

 

“There’s a great many things ye dinna ken about me, Sassenach,” Jamie chuckled as he dug into the basket for more food, “and I, you.”

 

I leaned forward, plunging my hand into the basket and digging until I found the rough hewn flesh of his palms. As our fingertips brushed against each other’s, our eyes met. Time slowed, the moon and the stars in the sky above hung still in their heavenly positions. Blindly, I sought my prize until it was well within my grasp and I tugged it free from Jamie’s hands with a small _Aha!_

 

A smirk graced my lips as I dangled the treat before him.

 

“Care to play a game?” I asked, swaying the apple before him, his eyes alternating between the bit of fruit and my lips as I spoke.

 

His eyes narrowed suspiciously as he asked, “What did ye have in mind?”

 

“Well..” I teased, leaning in further to brush the juicy flesh against his lips, “First I ask a question… then once you’ve told me the answer - _the truth_ no lies!”

 

I playfully pulled the fruit away and leaned as far away from Jamie as our little nest could accommodate. He followed me, his gaze never leaving mine, as he crawled over me until I was nearly flat on my back.

 

He rested his full weight on me, his hips successfully pinning mine to the spot. Our faces were merely inches apart. Nose to nose and eyes half closed, our lips were only a hair’s breadth apart so that as he exhaled I inhaled, the two of us breathing as one body, sharing space, air, and warmth. A moment passed, and then another with neither us of daring to move, unwilling to be the first one to break the connection.

 

I lowered my hand, slowly bringing the fruit in between us and inserting it into Jamie’s mouth.

 

“... _then_ you can have your prize,” I added.

 

My voice shook and my breath came short as my fingertips brushed against Jamie’s lips. He took the morsel into his mouth along with my fingers, sucking on them in the process and sending pleasure rippling through my body. I bit back a moan that threatened to burst from my lungs as he continued his path upward, his lips nibbling the flesh just at my pulse point.

 

I was positively drunk with need, an intense thirst that only Jamie could quench… and yet it took me back. As my heart raced with every caress and kiss, my mind did as well with memories of Frank and of my utter betrayal. I was an adulteress - several times over, in fact. The very thought of committing this sin yet again made my stomach turn sour. How could I be so reckless and so selfish with Jamie’s heart when he was so tender and careful with my own?

 

“I can see you’re hungry…” I laughed in an attempt to lighten the mood as I tried to squirm backwards and out of his grasp, but Jamie pressed on. He continued his path upward, kissing and nibbling any bare patch of skin he could find until his lips latched onto a particularly sensitive patch of skin just beneath my earlobe, which sent me reeling as another wave of pleasure coursed through my veins.

 

“Ravenous,” he hummed into the shell of my ear as he flexed his hips against mine, the length of him hard against my thigh through my skirts proved his intentions.

 

_“Jamie…”_ I whined as pushed him off of me, “I meant _food!”_

 

As I scurried back to the corner, Jamie scrambled out of our nest in a huff. He stood, brushing himself from stray bits of straw before he began pacing the rather short length of the loft. In four long strides, he’d reach one end and pause, his fingers idly tapping his thigh as he mulled over his thoughts before he’d take off suddenly in the opposite direction. He repeated this pattern several times over with his brow furrowed in fierce concentration and lips drawn into a tight line. I was certain he’d wear a hole straight through the already worn floorboards when he abruptly stopped before me.

 

“What’s wrong?” Jamie demanded, his question biting and swift as a newly sharpened sword and I struggled to guard myself with any comprehensible defense for a shield.

 

“Well I… and then you… I don’t know what you mean!” I stumbled over my words. Deceit coated my mouth and another lie caught in my throat as I tried and failed to circumvent my numerous falsehoods.

 

“Och, ye ken just what I mean,” he snickered as he walked closer, offering his hand to me and helping me to stand upright. “Yer thoughts are moving quicker than a burn in springtime an’ I canna keep pace if ye willna tell me what’s wrong.”

 

Jamie’s piercing gaze bore into my own, as if he could read my thoughts just by looking me in the eye. He often could - a special yet unnerving skill of his that always made me feel a bit unsettled - but when his lids narrowed and he tilted his chin slightly from side to side, my hands began to shake with overwhelming nerves.

 

He inched closer to me, and slowly, he took my hands into his, soothing me with his warm touch and calming presence. With Jamie near, my racing heart slowed to a manageable pace and my ragged breath evened out to a steady flow. His thumb traced slow, lazy patterns along my knuckles as he whispered comforting words of reassurance in Ghaidhlig. The rhythmic cadence of his words and his solid presence anchored me to the here and now when all I wanted to do was flee.

 

_He was my match in every way possible, but would he understand?_

 

“Is this because you have… lain … with Frank?” Jamie asked suddenly breaking any sense of calm I might have had.

 

I jumped back and ripped my hands from his grasp, breaking our physical connection just as I had broken his trust with the very incident he had just mentioned. Fear and regret clutched at my throat as it tightened, constricting around words I couldn’t bare to say.

 

“I _betrayed_ you,” I whispered as tears flooded my vision. “You can’t possibly want me now…”

 

Laughing in disbelief, Jamie shook his head as he stepped closer towards me with open arms. “

 

And I _forgave_ you,” he reminded me. “I've forgiven everything ye’ve ever done and everything ye possibly could do long ago.”

 

I quirked an eyebrow at him as I questioned his intentions. “You couldn’t possibly forgive crimes I have yet to commit. What makes you believe I won’t try to break your heart again?”

 

“Yer here with me, are ye no’?” Jamie asked, his brow furrowing in response to my lack of faith. “Even after I told ye to go to him, ye still _chose_ me.”

 

_I chose him. I chose us._

 

Jamie’s words washed over me, rinsing away any blemishes that fear or doubt had left in my mind. Leaving Frank was my decision, and accepting Jamie’s love was my choice. For the first time since this entire maddening journey began, I determined my own fate. As the realization dawned on me, I felt myself relax... the tension in my shoulders eased and a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding released in a soft sigh from my lips.

 

“I have loved ye since I saw ye, Sassenach,” Jamie declared as he stepped closer to me, closing the space between us. “I will love ye forever. It doesna matter if ye sleep with the whole English army… well no...”

 

He paused for a moment, an ironic smirk gracing his lips, before he corrected himself. “It would matter, but it wouldna stop me loving you.”

 

His cheerful yet cheeky expression remained as he measured me with a knowing look before he continued. “I ken it’s the same for you… that it’s never stopped, not even for a moment… if ye canna say it, then show me.”

 

I took one of his large hands in my own and pressed my lips to the fleshy center of his palm, kissing and honoring the promises rooted there… to cherish my body and to protect me from any harm. From there, I moved along his arm as I massaged the strong muscles that vowed to shield me and to build me a home. Eventually, I found his chest as I slowly released button by individual button of his vest, revealing the very core of him where his heart - which was now replaced with my own - resided. Layer by layer, piece by piece, I rediscovered every last inch of my husband as I undressed him at a leisurely pace (for him a painfully slow crawl) until he stood before me - entirely naked and begging with need.

 

Once Jamie was left in not a stitch of clothing, I circled him then, observing and even objectifying every last inch of his chiseled form. My fingertips lightly grazed his skin, tracing patterns over every crevasse, every muscle, every ridge. To any other woman, he would be absolutely attractive, but to me - the one person to whom he rendered his soul - his beauty split my heart completely in two.

 

As I completed my tour, I returned to face my husband, my Jamie. Every nerve beneath my skin hummed with the promise of contact, of touch, of completion. Through hooded lids, I made my counter offer.

 

“It’s _your_ turn…” I murmured, my voice cracking with need. Jamie nodded with a muttered aye under his breath. He placed his hands on my shoulders to turn me around to help me remove my skirts. His lips placed soft kisses along my neck, trailing down towards my shoulder as he quickly loosened the ties of my skirts. The voluminous fabric softly floated to my ankles with a whisper, and once the fabric settled on the ground, Jamie grasped at my waist to turn me around to face him.

 

He kissed me then, his lips full and sure against my own before turning his attentions to the laces of my bodice. With deft fingers, Jamie withdrew the knots of my laces all the while pressing kisses to every spare inch he could find: my lips, my cheeks, the sloping curve of my neck. He divulged me of every last inch of clothing and replaced their rigid confines of the fabric with his soothing touch until every inch of me was shaking.

 

Jamie took my hands in his own, steadying me physically and emotionally as he pleaded once more, “Show me, _mo ghraidh_.”

 

A fleeting glance passed between us, our eyelids flickering slightly as we eyed each other through hooded lids drunk with lust before I tested my boundaries. With both hands on his chest, I gently pushed Jamie backwards. Our feet drug and scraped against the wooden planks beneath us. I felt my toes catch the edge of an upturned floorboard. I tripped, colliding into Jamie’s solid chest and sending us both toppling over arse over elbows into our nest of blankets and hay.

 

We emerged sputtering with laughter and bits of straw decorating our tousled locks.

 

“Let me help clean you up,” I teased as I crawled into Jamie’s lap and straddled his hips. Delicately, my fingers picked through his ginger curls, careful not to tangle or pull as I removed the offending strands of hay.

 

“Ye need some help yerself, _mo nighean donn_ ,” he chuckled, his hand reaching up to detangle a piece of straw from my own curls.

 

Our giggles slowly gave way to serene quiet as our fingers wove in and out of one another’s locks, our movements slowly transforming into gentle caresses. Our hands roamed freely, exploring and rediscovering each other all over again. With every touch, my breath came short and heat pooled deep in my belly. I wanted - no needed - more. My eyes drifted closed as I arched into Jamie, moaning as I felt him grow impossibly harder against my center creating the friction we both desperately craved.

 

_**“Claire.”** _

 

I heard Jamie call my name, his voice low and his accent thick. My eyes fluttered open to meet his gaze, which had now gone dark with desire. It felt as if he could see directly into my soul, and the very thought of him seeing the very most intimate part of me made me shiver. I’d never felt so exposed yet so completely safe all at once.

 

“Come find me…” he urged as he cupped my cheek, “... come find us.”

 

Nodding, I took his hand in mine and moved it to my chest, to rest over my heart which was always his to hold and to protect. I kissed him then, soft and tentative at first before I shifted my hips slightly and surrendered completely to him, to us. Jamie’s hands came to my hips guiding me home over and over again. With every motion, my nipples brushed against the wiry hairs on his chest and our lips met in kiss after searing kiss leaving me breathless, clinging to his shoulders as my pleasure built and threatened to consume me fully. The barn, the town, the very world faded away until there was nothing left but us.

 

“I never stopped…” I moaned, each word punctuated by the rolling of my hips, “needing you… wanting you... loving you.”

 

Gathering me close to his chest, Jamie buried his head in my shoulder as he choked out a sob. His hips pistoned below me, driving into me harder, faster, deeper than I thought possible. I matched his pace and leaned back slightly, angling myself until he was hitting me there with every thrust and stars bloomed behind my closed lids. It wouldn’t take long… once, twice, three times more he drove himself home before I felt myself breaking, shattering in a million pieces as I cried out. Jamie followed me, my name a prayer on his lips as he reached his peak.

 

Entirely spent, I collapsed into my husband’s strong embrace, trusting him to hold me until daybreak. Gingerly, he eased us both into a comfortable sleeping position, my back to his front with my hips nestled to his. He wrapped us both in blankets to fight off the evening chill, and I sighed as I snuggled closer to him… _completely under his spell and happy to be there._

 

_To be continued..._


	17. Chapter 16: Anything Could Happen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie and Claire make their way home, but what fate awaits them when they arrive?

_Hogmanay_

 

After several days sequestered in the Oliver’s barn, we emerged, shedding our cozy cocoon of warm blankets, hay, and delicious privacy for the bitter cold of Scotland’s winter. We were able to barter once more with our hosts - my skills as a healer and midwife for his daughter as she delivered their first grandchild on Christmas morn no less in exchange for a horse to carry us on our journey. With our mount far more steadier than the ever rowdy Donas, we made our way to Lallybroch…our _home_... at a rather leisurely pace.

 

As we traversed the Scottish terrain, Jamie shared every inch of his homeland with me. He educated me on the surrounding landscape, naming every landmark we passed. In turn, I answered any question he had about the future we’d just visited and everything in between he would missed. When we’d exhausted those topics, we began lessons in _Ghaidhlig_ as Jamie taught me the various words for tree, hill, rock, and stream. At night, I in exchange taught him the Latin words for every part of the human form as we explored each other as often as frequently as we desired until we both became entirely fluent in the language of our own marriage. Responding to one another’s movements became so instinctual that when my fingers flexed, his hand reached out, and even at rest his heartbeat matched my own.

 

With steps in sync, heartbeats aligned, and fingers intertwined, we arrived at Lallybroch just in time to celebrate Hogmanay - the Scottish celebration honoring the very last day of the year and ringing in the new one to come. To the Scots, it was a great deal more important than Christmas, and therefore, it was quite special to Jamie… and to me. Hogmanay would be the first holiday we would truly celebrate together publicly as Laird and Lady Broch Tuarach, and even the sourest of grapes rolled out the red carpet for our welcome… including Jenny, who’d been in the courtyard along with the rest of our welcoming party when we’d arrived.

 

She was smaller than I’d imagined, with her father’s dark hair but her high cheekbones and steely blue eyes gave her a far more commanding presence than both Collum and Dougal combined. With a small babe tucked in the crook of her arm and another older child clutching at her skirts, she orchestrated the decorations for the upcoming celebrations. The bustle of whom I thought, at first, to be servants dressing the door was near pandemonium, but Jenny handled everything with an air of ease... tending to her children's needs all the while dictating the menu for the festivities to, presumably, Mrs Crook.

 

As we tentatively crept toward the archway, the servants Jenny had been commanding appeared to us as old friends. The gruff yet lovable Murtagh caught my gaze, and his expression softened ever so slightly as his grip on the juniper branch he’d been holding lessened. His counterpart - a younger man with a wooden leg - caught on to his surprise and turned to see who might be crossing the gate. As their eyes met, Jamie tossed me the reigns and ran towards his home and his kinsmen with a loud, whooping yell.

 

_“Ian?”_

_“Jamie?”_

_“Brathair?”_

_“Jenny?”_

_“A bhalaich?”_

_“A gostidh?”_

 

Their raucous cries collided in cacophonous joy and rang out through the courtyard as the family reunion of the century unfolded before my very eyes. Friend became brother, as Jamie’s closest childhood playmate Ian had married his sister; brother became uncle, as they now not only had one but two little ones to bless the family: first a son and my husband’s namesake complete with his penchant for mischief, and then a wee lass with stubbornness to spare.

 

Lurking in the archway, I kept my distance. I observed the scene unfold before me, one of a happy family with a love so all encompassing that I could feel its warmth thawing my solitary heart even from the outside their inner circle.. I watched as Jenny and Ian introduced their children to their uncle, and Jamie doted on them in turn. First - once he coaxed the wee lad out of hiding from behind his mother’s skirts - he teased and rough-housed with his nephew before tossing him high in the air to squeals of delight peeling through the air. Once wee Jamie was thoroughly entertained, the elder took his niece in his arms, the bundle of blankets dwarfed and albeit cushioned by the bulk of his biceps. As the baby began to cry, unleashing her massive displeasure to being jostled and therefore misplaced from her mother’s arms, Jamie settled her with ease while bouncing her in his arms and cooing to her in soft _Ghaidhlig_ whispers.

 

My heart lurched, clenching at the beautiful sight of my husband tending to small children. He did so with such a delight and gentleness unbeknown to the average bachelor, let alone one who was rather familiar with a lifestyle befitting of an outlaw. James Fraser was the very specimen of a true family man and perfect father, and while I longed to give him a family of our very own, the evidence - or lack there of - pointed towards the contrary. Tears brimmed my eyes, and my lips pressed into a thin smile as my throat tightened around a sorrow I could not yet voice before strong arms enveloped me into a fierce embrace.

 

 _“Thank Mary, Michael, and Bride! Yer no’ dead!”_ Murtagh whispered harshly as he crushed me in a near rib-cracking hug. As rough and tumble as Jamie’s godfather appeared, he was big of heart and cared for his loved ones deeply, which shone in the tears brimming from his eyes and the broad smile on his face when he pulled away from me only to hug his godson just as tightly.

 

Murtagh released me from his arms and then ushered into waiting open ones as I was introduced to Jenny, Ian, and wee Jamie all in turn. One by one, they greeted me with open arms and open hearts, each embracing me as if I’d been family already long before I’d married their Jamie. I thought my heart would burst from overwhelming confusion and gratitude all at once before Jenny’s husband interrupted my thoughts.

 

“Why don’t we all come inside, and ye can tell us of your grand adventures over a wee dram,” Ian offered.

 

Looking for guidance, I turned to Jamie, who only smiled broadly. His tensed muscles relaxed in the easy and warmth comfort of home, and his pride for the place shone in the tears that coated his eyelashes.

 

“Welcome home, Sassenach,” he beamed before he deftly and playfully scooped me into his strong arms. My squeals of feigned protest peeled through the courtyard as he carried me - his bride, his Lady Broch Tuarach - over the threshold.

_______________

That evening, dinner - thanks to the miraculous workings of Jenny and Mrs. Crook - was a feast in and of itself, and I had a hard time imagining the larger affair that would take place the following evening. Surrounded by family and warmed by the roaring fire, we broke bread and gave thanks for all of our blessings. Jenny recounted the last few years of her life at Lallybroch - marrying Ian, running the estate, and the births of first wee Jamie and more recently young Maggie. In turn, Jamie shared his adventures of a life on the run and then of his time spent with their conniving Mackenzie uncles before sharing his greatest adventure of them all that began the day a foul-mouthed Sassenach lassie healed his wounds.

 

I let Jamie do most - if not all - of the talking, only chiming in to fill in the details from my past life where he could not. I was completely content, my belly full from the lavish dinner, my hands warmed by the fire, and my cheeks rosy from the few too many glasses of whisky shared with my new family.

 

_Family._

 

The word rose from deep within me and nestled close to my heart, thawing the last bitter chill of loneliness from a life lived in near solitude for far too long. I never knew a life like this, one bursting at the seams with booming voices, endless laughter, and teasing yet constant affection. I’d lived all over the world and experienced countless adventures. I’d even been married once before, but even then I never stayed in a place long enough with any one particular person to experience any sort of longings for such formal trappings that belonged to _family_ and _home_ … and yet in this strange place surrounded by people I hardly knew, I felt this overwhelming sense of belonging, a calming peace washing over me. It was as if the sun had finally broken through the clouds on a bleak winter’s day, warming my skin the longer I basked in it’s heated glow. If this is how it felt to have _a family_ and _a home_ , I never wanted to let this feeling end.

 

Once the meal was finished and the children had been put to bed, we adjourned to the sitting room where we continued to drink and to tell the stories etched into our very bones over the last few years. Our tongues plied with drink and without little ears to catch our less than polite conversation, we grew more honest, utterly brash and entirely open with every passing word. Jamie and Ian frequently teased each other over their time spent together in Paris, hoping the jokes would pass over their wives’ innocent heads. Instead, Jenny and I in turn traded cutting jests at our dear husbands’ expenses.

 

After many a joke, our laughter gave way to comfortable silence accented by the roaring fire in the hearth. The logs splintered with loud pops and cracks as they gave way to the powerful flames before descending into ash. Somewhere in the distant study, an ancient grandfather clock ticked away as it counted down the fleeting seconds and passing minutes before loudly clamoring to life to announce a significant passage of time.

 

Jamie had been staring into the fire with one arm propped on the mantle when the clock chimed, ringing out the late hour to us all. We’d all jumped, alarmed by the sudden bells ringing and breaking the cozy silence that nearly captured us all into a sleepy stupor… but not Jamie.

 

He held himself wound tight like the string of a bow with a ready arrow, his muscles drawn ready to fight. His lids narrowed to slits as his fierce blue eyes scanned the flames for an answer - any answer - to whatever question he’d been turning over in his mind. Amidst the silence, he straightened suddenly and paused his train of thought, shifting his weight from one foot to the other before speaking.

 

“I have tae be honest wi’ ye, Jen…” Jamie began, his voice thick with drink and emotion as he stared into the depths of his whisky glass. “There were things our uncles told me… and if I’d come upon ye wi’out Ian, I would’ve believed their lies to be true.”

 

Without missing a beat, Jenny rolled her eyes and scoffed at the mention of her uncles with a nonplussed and very Scottish noise from deep in her throat before pulling punches. “What do those dafties have to say about me? They havena seen me since I was _ten!”_

 

On our journey to Lallybroch, Jamie had told me in further detail of what had happened the day Captain Jonathan Wolverton Randall had visited their home. He'd glazed over the redcoat's assault on his own person, only to highlight that it appeared - without his own hand there to protect her - that his dear sister Jenny had been raped by the vicious captain and left pregnant with his child. At least... that is what his uncles had lead him to believe. Scotland was a small country, and gossip among the clans in the highlands ran wildly free and just as contagious as the common cold or pregnancy as it so should seem. The guilt that he couldn’t protect his own sister weighed heavily on Jamie’s mind daily, and the added, continuous flowing stream of salacious chatter did nothing to ease his mind.

 

“Tell me what happened with Randall,” he demanded before finishing the whisky in his glass and replenishing it from the carafe on the end table next to me.

 

 _“Randall…”_ Jenny drawled, rolling her r’s deep in her throat, **“Jack** Randall, ye mean… the redcoat captain?”

 

Rolling his eyes, Jamie sniggered, a deep Scottish sounding noise rumbling from his throat. “I should think ye ken him far better than I do by now, Jen.”

 

Jenny straightened in her chair, leaning into the fray as she snapped back. “Correct me brother - _if I’m wrong_ \- but I’ve the strong impression that our uncles - an’ ye as well - have imagined that I played… the _whore_ … to Captain Randall!”

 

Jamie swayed on his heels as he whistled low through his teeth, his cheeks stained pink from either adrenalin or embarrassment I couldn’t be sure. He rocked back and forth, and I could see his thoughts turning over in his mind like the gears of the clock in the adjacent room. He pitched his weight forwards and backwards once more before taking off like a hornet towards Jenny, and once he reached his sister’s perch, he loomed over her with frustration blooming red hot in his cheeks.

 

Jamie gripped the back of the chair in which Jenny sat, nearly shaking it as he bellowed. “Ye took him back into the house instead of lettin’ me protect ye! What else on Earth should I think?!”

 

 _“An’ what was I supposed to do?!”_ She screeched as she stood and stalked over to where her brother stood, chin held high while she continued to scream right into his face. “Let ‘em test how thick hieded ye truly are by puttin’ a bullet through yer skull?!”

 

Though she stood more than a head shorter than Jamie, what Jenny lacked in size she made up for in unbridled rage. She stood toe to toe with her younger brother, her face red with anger mere inches from his own. Breathing heavily, they huffed and puffed like a pair of twin locomotive engines.

 

Leaning forward, I moved towards them and began to open my mouth to protest when I felt a hand on my arm. Amidst the fray, Ian had moved to sit beside me. It was his hand that had gently pulled me back. As I met his kind gaze, he shook his head with a small smile.

 

“Best no’ to get between two Frasers when they have their danders up, lass.”

 

I returned his smile, only for the squabbling beside us to turn to a deafening roar. Jamie’s cheeks were flushed as red as his hair by now, and Jenny’s perfectly kept braid was beginning to unravel, wild tendrils escaping their pins as she shook with rage. The pair of them spewed steady streams of Ghaidhlig, trading insults so fiercely and loudly I thought I’d heard the window panes rattle in their wake. The volume of their voices rose steadily in a violent crescendo before a loud, booming voice from behind me broke through the din.

 

 _ **“Haud yer wheesht!”**_ Murtagh threatened. “Ye’ll wake the bairns wi’ yer squabblin.”

 

The siblings sombered, the pair of them blushing with their eyes cast downward like a pair of naughty children in the eyes of their stern godfather. With muttered apologies, they shuffled back to their seats. Ian returned to his original spot by Jenny’s side so Jamie could sit with me on the settee.

 

Awkward silence blanketed the parlor. We shifted in our seats, fidgeting uncomfortably under the weight of the deafening quiet. The wooden frames creaked below us and echoed loudly throughout the space between our unspoken thoughts. Unable to meet anyone’s gaze, I reached for Jamie. My hand slid across the velvet-covered cushion to squeeze his thigh as I tried to encourage him to be the bigger person and apologize. In response, he offered his reassurance, his fingers intertwined with mine as Jenny began to speak.

 

“I’ll tell ye, brother, about what happened that day,” she offered, “but on one condition: ye’ll let me speak my peace wi’out interruption.”

 

As Jenny spoke, her eyes glassed over, filling with unshed tears. Her words came slowly and she paused often to mull over forgotten details of a day she’d long tried to forget. She described her journey through the house with Randall, how she tried to hit him with a pot, then a candlestick… really any household item she could get her hands on to slow his advances. After the third attempt, the captain had had enough. Jenny closed her eyes, her hands trembling as she recounted how he’d grabbed her by her hair and shoved her into the first bedroom he could find. My blood ran cold as she told us how Black Jack had thrown her onto the bed, face down into the pillows so no one could hear her scream. She’d been waiting for the inevitable as he readied himself when Randall began to ramble on about some prophecy.

 

 _“A prophecy?”_ I questioned. “What kind of prophecy?”

 

 ** _“Will ye let me finish?”_** Jenny snapped before continuing on without the answer she demanded. “He kept sayin’ how he’d be _‘fulfillin’ The Fraser Prophecy,’_ which to me sounded completely daft… so I laughed.”

 

Jenny continued on with her story, describing how her continuous and mocking laughter earned her a swift knock to her scull while saving her from an even worse fate… and yet, her voice faded into a distant buzzing in the background as I watched Jamie. His brow knitted together, and his lips pursed into a slight frown as the wheels in his head began turning. I could see the way his mind turned over his thoughts, carefully weighing the options before he spoke.

 

“The _Fraser_ Prophecy…” Jamie said with heavy pauses between his words. “Ye canna mean…”

 

“Aye, the one Da used to tell us as bairns…” Jenny nodded, rocking a bit in her chair as she foretold the fate that was yet to come. “‘Twas the same story that Old Simon Fraser’s seer had proclaimed years ago. Scotland would be free of British rule one day, and her king would come from one clan and one clan only... _Clan Fraser.”_ T

 

ightly, I gripped the arm of the sofa with my free hand as my mind reeled with endless possibility. _The Fraser Prophecy_ … Jamie had mentioned it weeks ago, when we were in the Reverend’s study. Between Frank’s sudden arrival and my own internal conflict, I’d been too distracted to pay full attention, but what I’d remembered, the Prophecy shouldn’t have applied to Jenny at all. _The heir of Simon Fraser and a ban-druidh would bring forth a king to rule over Scotland._ If anything, the prophecy pointed towards Jamie and myself… if it was even true. To even the most superstitious Scot, there were plenty of holes to poke in this story with only the most gentle of nudges...

 

“Clearly, there must be some truth to it if it managed to reach Randall’s ears...” Jamie hinted as he grasped my hand in his, searching for the facts that we both craved.

 

Jenny drained her whisky as she rolled her eyes, “I may not have studied in Paris like you, _Sawney_ , but I ken it’s no’ more than a fairy story ye tell bairns to get them to go to sleep.”

 

Jamie dropped my hand suddenly, his hand balling into a fist as a growl unfurled from his lips.

 

 _ **“Dinna call me that!”**_ He hissed.

 

The room fell quiet with Jamie’s command. The sound of the roaring fire in the hearth filled the space between the silence with crackles and pops as the wood split beneath its power. We all shifted uncomfortably in our seats, our eyes darting from corner to corner unable to make contact following the latest outburst.

 

“Well… we best be up to bed. We have a big day ahead of us,” Jenny said, breaking the silence and the tension in the room. “Tomorrow will be a time for celebratin’ the Laird’s return wi’ a proper Hogmanay celebration for all the tenants of Lallybroch.”

 

As my in-laws rose to take their leave, I felt my heart squeeze in my chest. Jamie was still - for all intents and purposes - a wanted man as far as we knew. We hadn’t received official word from the Duke of Sandringham. If Murtagh didn’t have word with him when we arrived, I doubt we’d receive it for another few weeks at least. The thought of a very public holiday didn’t sit well with me, and my stomach agreed with rolling nerves.

 

“It all sounds very… _public_. Isn’t that risky? At least until the pardon comes through?” I asked, the pitch of my voice rising as my throat constricted with my mounting anxiety. Jamie, sensing my agitated state, wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me to him, sheltering me within his embrace.

 

Jenny waved of my concerns with a shake of her head.  “Our tenants are like family. Not a man, woman, or child would think about betraying Jamie to the redcoats or their cold-blooded captain… at any price.”

 

And with that, we all went off to bed, completely at peace, safe in warm in our beds from any dangers that threatened us beyond the boundaries of Broch Mordha.

_________

The following morning, I woke slowly, my head thick and cloudy as if it were filled with cotton instead of the whisky we’d indulged in the night before. I was snug and warm beneath the piles of bedclothes, and I had no desire to untangle myself from their cozy depths. I only longed for my husband… and to stay in bed with him for as long as possible. Tentatively, my fingers wandered, dancing along the smooth linen in search of my long lost bed mate, itching to feel his skin against my own… but when I reached out, I only found emptiness, the linen beneath my fingers cooled by the crisp winter air.

 

I was all alone in our bed… and yet, somewhere deep within me, the place where my soul called out to his, I knew I wasn’t alone.

 

Beyond the covers, I heard a faint rustling, the sound of cloth billowing and brushing against itself in the softest of whispers. Jamie’s leather boots shuffled against the worn, hand-scraped floor boards, perfectly timed and punctuating the flowing rhythm of his morning prayers. The earthy, rich _Ghaidlhig_ filled the air in our bedroom and nestled into every nook and crevice it could find. The ancient magic of the words surrounded me, rocked me, and lulled me into a sense of perfect peacefulness that I could’ve sworn this was heaven on earth.

 

Heavy footfalls soon broke my reverie as they slowly meandered to the door like slow, deep thunder of a deep brewing summer storm. His footsteps paused as Jamie halted beside our bed, bending at the waist to capture my hand in his. With his hand in mine, I tugged with every bit of strength I could muster at such an ungodly hour of dawn and brought him closer to me until our lips met.

 

I kissed him then, soundly and far more deeply than a proper wife should for a decent good morning kiss to her husband. When he pulled away, I groaned in protest.

 

 _“Come back to bed…”_ I pleaded, my voice thick with sleep and thicker yet with the desire I felt burning low in my belly.

 

Jamie snorted before pressing a kiss to my knuckles.

 

“We have a lifetime for that, mo nighean donn…”

 

He tried to pull away, and my fingers gripped his tighter. We pulled at one another in a playful tug-of-war until Jamie finally tugged his fingers free to work the land while mine floated back to the pillowy softness of our bed. As my eyes drifted close once more, I could’ve sworn I heard him chuckle as he again began to pray for his _Calman Geal_ … whatever that meant.

 

Quite some time later I woke. Embarrassed by my lack of assistance for the impending festivities and the late hour to which I’d slept, I hastily dressed and raced downstairs to aid in the preparations for Hogmanay. When I finally made my appearance for the day, I found myself alone, the main living rooms of the house completely vacated as they appeared to have just been cleaned and approved for company.

 

I roamed the halls with idle mind and equally idle hands, aimlessly wandering as I looked for some chore to help with. I found myself memorizing every inch of the house from the beautiful architecture to the personal touches throughout the home. I easily wasted an hour admiring the paintings in the hallway, utterly amused with the portraits of Jenny, Jamie, and whom I guessed was Willie as children. It was a feat to capture such a real likeness with only a brush and even more so to get small children to sit still long enough to pose. I was in awe of the artwork and the artist.

 

Eventually, I wandered downstairs toward the dining room, where I further distracted myself with several heirlooms. One by one I appraised candlesticks and serving platters, acknowledging the metal work and the patterning I’d once observed on a trip to observe an old dig in Oseburg with Uncle Lamb. He taught me the various patterns of the time and their relevance in history, but I never imagined that ever see such originals again… let alone hold them with my own hands.

 

“Can I help ye with something, lass?”

 

A voice called from behind me, startling me and sending the tray I held clattering down onto the sideboard. Between the scare and the whisky from the night before, I felt a wave of nausea pass over me as the room began to spin. Steadying myself, I pressed my palms into the wooden surface while taking several deep breaths. Once I calmed myself a bit, I turned around.

 

“Jenny - you _scared_ me!” I wheezed, clutching at my ribs as another bout of dizziness came over me. “I was just looking for Jamie. Do you know where he is?”

 

She apologized with a small chuckle as she explained where everyone had gone. “Ian and Saw… Jamie are tending the horses and clearin’ some space in the barn for this evenin’.”

 

The mysterious name had appeared again, despite Jamie’s demands for the word to never be uttered from now until the end of time. It tumbled around my mind like a secret yet to be shared yet too juicy to be kept to oneself.

 

_Sawney._

 

The musical cadence of the syllables reminded me of many _Ghaidhlig_ words I’d heard before, but none of them came to mind presently. While I imagined several simple and formal terms of endearment, the youthful, elongated e sound coupled with Jenny’s soft and thoughtful inflected suggested something far more familiar.

 

“You called him that last night…” I paused, bracing myself as I broached my question carefully. “What does _Sawney_ mean?”

 

She sighed gustily as the years of worry, pain, and sadness crossed her brow. “Tis a play on his second name, Alexander...Twas a nickname our brother Willie had for Jamie...”

 

My heart clenched at the mention of Jenny and Jamie’s older brother. I couldn’t imagine the burden he bared, returning to a home he longed for only to be reminded of the immense sadness found within these walls. I knew his grief, the one of loved ones lost at so young of an age you barely understood let alone remembered the ones you once treasured… but without a place to truly call home, grief had no true home for me. I carried it with me always, tucked deep within my heart and ready to battle with it when it reared its ugly head. I wondered how Jamie bore this grief when Jenny’s voice broke through my thoughts.

 

“Ye’re a bit… _older_ than I’d expected,” she inquired, her voice heavy with assumptions she’d clearly made but didn’t wish to proclaim aloud. “Five years older than my brother is it?”

 

I held my head high as I answered her, haughty and proud. “Four years and six months if you’re being precise about it… but what’s four and a half years over the course of a lifetime?”

 

If I’d told this to Frank’s mother or to anyone else in the world, the person listening would’ve embraced me in a tender hug and cherished this moment dearly. It’s only deep in the Highlands that a moment such as this is met with laughter and jest.

 

“Och, I’m only teasin ye, lass,” Jenny chuckled as she smoothed her skirts. “Ye’re young enough… still young enough to fill a house this size with plenty of bairns should ye wish…”

 

Jenny’s words rang in my ears, loudly clanging and clashing with each other as the world before me crashed to a screeching halt. Fear gnawed deep in my belly, a fierce and famished hunger of not only the desire to be a mother but yet the ever present doubt that this wish would never come to fruition. I’d tried with Frank, but it never happened… Whether it was our time apart or something else I never could be sure, but Frank’s portion of the equation didn’t matter nor that it had for some time. The truth laid within me and only me. The unknown and unanswered question of if I could weighed heavily on me daily. I knew Jamie wanted a family, but I was unsure if I could give that to him.. and to deny him that gift broke my heart so deeply I could hardly speak of the idea of children with anyone.

 

“I don’t know about that,” I admitted quietly. “I’m not even sure I can...”

 

Tears flooded my vision as something within me… my voice or my resolve... cracked audibly. And yet, from across the room, I heard my own good sister question me as she shook her head.

 

“Yer sure then?” Jenny risked with hands on her hips. “Because from where I’m standin’, Claire, I’d say yer positively… _glowing_.”

 

Her words hit me, cool, blustery and gobsmacking as a fresh winter wind. There was some truth to them. I’d been dizzy and randomly feverish over the past few days, but I’d attributed it to the excitement of the passing weeks since my reunion with Jamie at Craigh na Dunn. While my mental calendar noted that Jenny could be in fact right in her assumptions, it’d be far to early to tell… and with my history on my side, I chose to shake of her assumptions rather than excite myself with false hopes.

 

“You must have your hands full with preparations with today’s festivities - is there anything I can do to help?” I offered, hoping the change of subject would divert Jenny’s attentions to the present rather than a future that may not exist.

 

“Och, aye… if ye could take the serving dishes in that chest to Mrs. Crook in the kitchen and I’m sure there’s a bit o’ silver that needs polishin’...” Jenny moved from room to room as her voice drifted of with her litany of chores to be done.

 

Swiftly, I turned to the buffet table behind me to retrieve the dishes Jenny’s mentioned. I carefully layered them from large to small in the crook of my arm to balance their weight. With the smallest dish cradled in my arms, I began to turn when a sudden glint of porcelain caught my eye.

 

It was smaller than I’d remembered, probably dwarfed in size by the towers of stacked pottery to be cleaned or stored within the cabinetry below. The curves of the earthen ware were smooth, no hint of damaging crack or missing chip along the lip. The colors were more saturated, more distinct than before as the whites had yet to yellow and the rich blues were still freshly painted. Slowly, I reached for it with my free hand, and as my fingertips grazed the curve of the cold glazing, I gasped in surprise at the realness of it all.

 

_The blue vase._

 

**_Arc I complete._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's soundtrack is Ellie Goulding's Anything Could Happen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5hzgS9s-tE8
> 
> Thank you all for your love & support through out the journey that was this fic arc! Stay tuned for Arc II!


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